bad blood
by midnightweeds
Summary: It wasn't a choice. Not really. But, she chose him, anyway.
1. part one

**A/N -** _I have been holding onto this story for so long that I'm sure the person who sent me the prompt (Shamelessly Radiant !) has probably forgotten she sent me a prompt and that I even wrote this. I got, like, really carried away and turned what was supposed to be a one-shot into a multi-part fic (what's new, I guess).  
Anyway, hopefully you all enjoy it. I'll update every other day or so._

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 _"...It's been cold for years,_

 _Won't you let it lie?"_

-Bastille, 'Bad Blood'

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 **PART ONE**

 **I.**

"What?"

Hermione looked up to see Ron and Harry watching her in curious confusion. Looking away from them, she rubbed at her ears and –when that wasn't enough- her temples and forehead.

"Are you alright, Hermione?" Ron asked, his fingers brushing her knee. "You've done this a few times already."

"I'm fine," she murmured, closing her eyes and pulling away from his touch. It lingered like ice on her hot skin, burning and chilling her to the bone. "Just tired, I guess."

"Go and lie down," Harry told her as he stood up and neared her. Taking the book she was reading out of her hands, he rested a hand on her shoulder. "We're going to move tonight. We need you…you know," he shrugged, swallowing, his words hanging in the air. Exhaustion wrote epics on his face and features, and she found herself again praying that all of this would just end itself; that they – _especially_ Harry- could just be normal kids for once.

"We need you to be all there," he half laughed jokingly, but they all knew it wasn't funny. It was the truth.

She didn't meet their eyes as she left, silently lying down on her cot within the tent. Just before falling asleep, she pulled the mangled locket from her pocket, twisting the platinum chain up her arm and tucking the pendulum into her sleeve. Resting it over her chest, she felt the ghost of power and fear and the blind ignorance of the strength of youth settle around her.

It was everything they needed- everything _she_ needed.

 **II.**

"Hermione!"

She felt Ron's weight upon her, heavy and limp as they hit the stone grounds surrounding the castle.

"Ron?" She poked at the body covering her, screaming when she realized that he wasn't responding to her. The silence that followed was deafening, chilling every inch within her and making it difficult to even think. A few seconds passed, dragging on and tearing at her sanity, until she felt a wave of magic pass over her, heavy and disabling.

She managed to wedge a hand between their bodies, and felt his heart beating painfully slow against her palm. With a sigh of relief, she looked around the see that no one was standing, and those around her had the same empty stare that Ron did.

"Draco?"

Hermione froze, eyes widening as she watched Narcissa Malfoy stumble out of the forest and toward her son, who laid just a few feet from her. The witch sobbed lightly, clutching at her son's robes as calls rang out around them- she recognized none of their voices, and from the way Mrs. Malfoy unhurriedly wiped the tears from her face, she realized that they must have been the voices of remaining Death Eaters. They were nearing the castle.

She pushed Ron off of her. As blue eyes met brown, Hermione stood up, lifting her chin. "Whatever spell was used knocked them unconscious, but he isn't dead," glancing down at the others around them, she sniffled, fingers wrapping around the locket at her breast. "He shouldn't be, at least."

Narcissa stood as well, casually righting her elegant robes, barely stained by the filthy grit of war. If it hadn't been for the dark circles beneath her tired, red eyes, Hermione wouldn't have known the witch had even participated in the night before.

The voices called out again, and she recognized Bellatrix's shrill call instantly, tensing painfully.

The blonde pursed her lips and looked at a nearby body- it was Harry's. "Unconscious?" She questioned lowly, an emotion Hermione couldn't recognize catching in her throat.

"I think so."

She bent down over Harry, her fingers ghosting over his face before pressing into his pulse point. Her eyes met the younger witch's blankly.

"Hermione," Narcissa whispered, so quietly and gently that she had to remind herself that she'd been tortured on her floor. That she'd nearly died there. This woman wasn't her mother. She wasn't even an acquaintance. "Run."

 **III.**

There was no room to think or breathe or acknowledge the burning in her lungs and tingling in her palms. There was nothing left. She'd been caught, barely twenty paces from the apparition point. Fear replaced her anger and exhaustion as she kneeled in the Forbidden Forrest, but she refused to let it show.

"Hermione Granger," Voldemort's voice was light and rough against her ears. He watched her blankly, as though she wasn't there at all, his hands clasped behind his back and head tilted in thought.

She stared bitterly at him from her place on the ground, her knees aching against the stone. Her thighs burned and calves cramped painfully, but she didn't fidget. She didn't even blink. Her jaw remained hard and eyes clear as she watched him. If she was going to die, she'd resolved to do it with dignity. She would not beg or plead. She would not take anything he attempted to offer –she imagined that he was sick in that way, after all.

"The Brightest Witch of her Age." He laughed, and for a moment –so quick, she thought she'd imagined it, but Bellatrix's sharp glance of wonder at her master told her it was true-, the sound came out warm and genuine, rich with life.

Lightening could have struck her and it would have made more sense.

"And you will die no different than the rest of your filthy, wretched kind."

Her eyes shifted to where Narcissa stood with her husband, confusion flooding her. There was no way that they'd killed everyone that quickly. It'd barely been ten minutes. Once again, blue eyes met brown, quick and hard and reassuring; Hermione had no idea why the woman was _helping_ her. All that mattered was that they weren't dead, and that Voldemort didn't know. At least not yet.

Narcissa looked back down at the ground, falsely grieving her son.

Hermione looked back at the Dark Lord.

He unclasped his hands and walked slowly around her. She felt his magic, picking and probing at her mind. She let him. There was nothing there.

"Any last words, Mudblood?" He asked, his voice more amused than anything else.

She clenched her jaw tighter, pressing her tongue to the back of her teeth to relieve the building pressure. There was nothing she really wanted to say, but she found herself weak, and death was closer now than it'd been when she was starving and on the run.

If he had a brow, it would have lifted as their eyes met. Her lips curled as she said, "Fuck you."

Bellatrix laughed, her cackles echoing against the woodland. Hermione didn't bother looking to see where she'd moved. Voldemort smirked, his rotting teeth drawing chills over the back of her neck, "Oh, dear."

He lifted his wand, "Avada Ke-"

For a moment, it seemed that time stood still. His eyes fastened on something at her neck, and it suddenly weighed painfully on her raw skin. The locket. Slytherin's locket. _His_.

"-davra," the rest of the spell fell from his mouth without thought, his wrist twisting the wrong way at the last moment.

She felt the spell, hot and cold and suffocating as it attempted to consume her. She felt like screaming, like clawing her heart from her chest, but nothing hurt. Not really. Where the chain sat around her neck, it felt as though ice was searing the metal to her skin, tugging over her body protectively. It distracted her, momentarily at least, from her surroundings.

She blinked, the world coming back into focus as shrieking filled her ears. Translucent fire surrounded Voldemort as he watched her, his face suddenly hard and curious in the chaos surrounding him. As the shrieking ended –it couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but it felt like forever as she thought about it-, she realized that the locket must have still had bits of his life attached to it, and that it'd protected her from his wrath. _Why?_

Not knowing what to make of the situation, but incredibly aware of the fact that he was no longer holding his wand to her, she stood up, her body protesting superficially.

"I'm alive," she whispered, tearing her eyes away from Voldemort to look at her hands and run them over her body. Somehow, his past self had protected her from his present self, and she wrecked her brain in attempt to figure out how it was even possible. She gripped the locket in her first, ensuring its safety.

He was suddenly before her, eyes clear and more amber than red as he took the locket from her hand. Quiet curiosity surrounded them both, and she found herself even more surprised when he didn't tug the necklace from her neck. Instead, he let it fall onto her chest as he stepped away, looking around them.

She looked around, too.

"Are they dead?" She asked, but resolved a second later, "Merlin, they're dead. Are we- did you-" She inhaled deeply, releasing a shuddering breath that shook her chest.

She looked down at the locket to find that it'd restored itself, pretty and sparkling in her hands. It seemed different than it had before, slightly feminine in nature, but she found that she couldn't be sure. What she was sure of was the fact that it _felt_ different. It was almost as though there was nothing there, but at the same time: everything.

Voldemort rounded on her instantly, and Hermione gasped at his appearance- he was younger, not quite as handsome as rumors had made him out to be, with a dark rage that seemed to permeate the world around him, hovering like darkness over his sharp features. He gripped her arm painfully, wand digging into her skin.

"How did you destroy the locket?"

His voice was low and charming, the type that could get someone to do anything with a simple suggestion. Yet, there was disgust in his tone. It distracted her. It caused her to feel small and insecure.

"I-I…I didn't. Ron did. With Gryffindor's sword."

"Yet you wear it around your neck. _Why?_ "

"I don't know," she looked into his eyes. They weren't human, but they were no longer snake's eyes. "What happened? Why did…why am I alive?"

"Did you wear the locket before it was destroyed?"

"We all did."

He let her go as though he'd been burned. "Filth. Vermin. You are…disgusting." He looked around them, eyes sweeping over the dead bodies as though they were nothing.

"Was it feeding off of me?" She asked, her mind clicking back on. Somehow, fear didn't exist within her. It was as though it never had. "Is that why I'm still alive? Is that why it looks the way it did before we destroyed it? Because it needed me to," she didn't want to say live, "continue on?"

He just stared at her, blankly. Waiting, but not. Curious, but not.

"I'm alive because I kept it?"

"You aren't alive," he told her coldly. "Not really."

The world spun around her for what felt like an eternity before finally going black.

 **IV.**

Hermione woke up on the couch in the Headmaster's office. For a moment, it was as though nothing had happened. It still smelt the same, and she still felt the same; but, at the last second she felt someone probing at her mind, and her eyes popped open. Voldemort –Tom Riddle, _really_ \- was sitting on an arm chair, his jaw propped in his hand as he watched her; it was hard to read his expression, as he looked more crazed than he did anything else. She still couldn't imagine how he'd gotten through school on his charm and good looks; and, as his chuckle echoed against the high ceilings of the office, she realized that not only was he viewing her memories, but reading her thoughts as well.

"This is my twenty year old self," he informed her. His voice was smooth and soothing, which made her skin crawl, but the disgust from earlier was gone. He looked at his hands for a moment, as though he was in awe of himself, before putting his chin back in his palm and looking at her. "I believe I've just created that locket."

She sat up, cold, uncomfortable, and wandless. "Are we in 1946?"

"No. We are very much in 1996."

"You said I wasn't really alive earlier," she murmured, her hand pressing against her chest. Her heart was beating- quick and hard against her fingers.

He shook his head slightly, lips pursing for a moment. "My followers are dead- your friends are alive."

She couldn't hide her excitement, which was only dulled by his dark smirk.

"Oh, dear," he murmured, running his free hand through his thick curls. "My dear-"

She jerked, her eyes widening and blood seeming to burn in her veins.

"Do not feel so relieved, so fortunate, Miss Granger. _You_ are the cause of this," he gestured to himself casually, "and the renewed state of my locket. Not to mention…"

He sat up, patting his inner arm as he lifted his chin in her direction.

Hermione tugged the sleeve of her sweater up, screaming when she saw the snake tattoo twisting delicately over her flesh.

"There is the matter of you baring my mark. A variation of it, of course, but it is mine -you are mine-, for all intents and purposes."

"What have you done to me? Why do I have this?"

"It is your own fault, for tampering with my things, girl. Do not look at me so cruelly. I've seen your mind, after all. I know what's in your heart, my dear." A slightly smug look formed over his dark features. "You wanted this, little Mudblood."

Her skin crawled at the gentleness of his cruel words. She was coming to understand how he'd gotten through school unnoticed, and wondered what it meant for her that she'd been found near him when the other's had awoken. They'd left her unconscious with him, after all. She couldn't have meant much at the moment.

"No," she murmured, not sure if it was to him or herself. Her mind reeled. "I wanted you and your supporters dead. I didn't want," she rubbed at her skin, watching as the snake twisted away from her touch. Her thoughts seemed to escape her for a moment, until she finally said, "This. I didn't want _this_."

Her eyes burned but she couldn't cry. The tears wouldn't come, even as she gasped and dry-heaved, her chest suddenly shaking with nerves and anger she couldn't make sense of, but understood nonetheless. She looked back at Voldemort to see that he was watching her, eyes vacant; she continued to feel him in her head and rubbed violently at her temples.

"Would you mind," she murmured, eyes falling closed. Almost instantly, he came to a standstill, as though he were playing a game of freeze. "How did this get here?"

"That is what I was attempting to determine, Miss Granger, before you politely asked me out of your conscious." She heard him move in the leather chair. "At this point, I daresay your guess is nearly as good as mine."

Her eyes opened instantly. He'd laced his fingers in his lap and drawn one leg over the other. Although his eyes were still vacant, his head was tilted in feigned interest. Dully, she asked, "Really?"

He smirked, and for a moment she could see the ghost of someone handsome and charming. She was grateful he wasn't that person anymore. He chuckled, tugging a hand through his curls, pulling them away from his face thoughtfully. "You're capable of wandless."

"I am."

"Summon the cup on the Headmaster's desk."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"My dear, just do it. If you're capable of the task-"

She scowled, instantly angered by the suggestion of inability, and summoned the cup with a nonverbal. He smiled. As it landed in her hands, she pelted at him, and became surprised when he ducked instead of blocking it.

He was still smiling as he said, "Charming."

The staircase began to shift, and she was reminded of the state of her arm.

Voldemort sighed. "Do not think of the mark, girl. It is nothing. Concern yourself with the fact that we are currently the only beings capable of magic in Great Britain."

Her eyes widened. He finally met her gaze, jaw squaring and mouth tightening momentarily. Something flickered in his eyes. She wasn't sure what to consider it. Whether it was life or intrigue or the thought of possession. But, she felt the ghost of him against her chest, heavy and powerful and full of magic she didn't understand. Yet.

It caused her to swallow thickly, a chill passing over her body. He half smirked, false tenderness in his gaze. "Hermione Granger," he murmured, "the Brightest of her Age. Noble Gryffindor's very own," he chuckled. "And _mine_ to teach and guide-"

"They are going to put you in Azkaban. I will not be yours. Ever."

"Privy, of course," he continued as though he hadn't heard her, as though the sound of people climbing the stone staircase didn't echo through the room, "to all that I have learned and come to understand of this world…of the other."

Desire and yearning swept over her. Self-loathing followed. The snake moved, twisting carefully, as though encouraging her to take the bait willingly.

She swallowed.

"How can you remember? If you are yourself at twenty?"

"The state of my body does not interfere with my mind," he told her, the ghost of a sneer on his lips. It was the most vicious she'd seen him, and –because of how handsome he seemed- it looked as though he was fighting with himself. "How did I remain myself while attached to that professor? When I came out of the diary? When I came to being in that graveyard?" His voice was quiet, inspiring wonder.

She wasn't fooled. "This isn't the same. You had no horcrux this time."

He hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his bottom lip as he watched her. She looked away for fear of betraying something she didn't really understand.

"Consider: if I am unaware of the life I led, my goals are aligned with my twenty year old self. I am moments away from a journey of knowledge and self-awareness. England will soon be in the palm of my hand, Britain to follow nearly instantly." He placed his chin in his hand again, leaning on the arm of his chair, "And, I am inviting you to join me. To have a piece of that."

"I'm not interested."

He seemed dully disappointed. "Would you prefer I determined how to fix this on my own, my dear?"

She cringed. "I wouldn't dream of it-"

"I think that I've proven what I'm capable of, and now I'm aware of my own mistakes. I know what to do to ensure success the second time around." His eyes sparked again, with what she supposed was excitement. "Imagine being a part of rebuilding this world. Imagine being in control of that."

"I wouldn't, not even for a moment, believe that you're considering teaming up with me, _Riddle_ ," she hissed, and resisted backing down as his eyes sharpened. "I am a proud Muggleborn witch, not to mention incredibly intelligent and logical. Why would I believe that you're interested in offering me that kind of power? Why would you believe that I would _take_ such an offer? From a known corrupt and racist _monster_ , for that matter."

His brow quirked, and a look of wonder filtered over his face. It was endearing, and it shouldn't have been. At length, he said, "I have seen your heart, Hermione Granger. I know your fears and I know your desires, perhaps even better than you; and I can offer you fulfillment.

"Or, you may agree to their terms –should they be so kind as to offer you any, and I'm sure they will, if Harry Potter has any say in matter-, and live a puppet life in the shadow of their hesitant confidence and constant fear, given your circumstance," he nodded toward her arm.

"What are you thinking? That we attempt to overpower and rule-"

He laughed heartily as a small group of people finally entered the office. She didn't know any of them, but recognized that they were all Ministry Law Enforcement-types, and found herself moving cautiously down the couch, closer to Voldemort. He relaxed confidently, not hesitating to meet her gaze when she glanced at him. He winked, practically playfully, before shrugging his shoulders and flashing his palm to her in question.

Their eyes were still locked as the group spread out around them. She recognized Harry's voice, echoing up the stone staircase, but didn't move to see him. He was right – _Voldemort_ was right-, they wouldn't trust her. At best, they would offer her anything she wanted, give her a powerful position, but he'd said it for himself: they would always hesitate. They would never trust her. Because she'd created the wizard she was sitting with. She'd brought him back to life by holding onto and nurturing his locket. She was still wearing it, even.

She realized that her fingers were wrapped around it.

"Hermione?" Harry asked, and she looked over slowly, as though it was a second or third thought. He was holding a wand in is hand like a security blanket, tapping it against his leg nervously.

She hadn't tugged her sleeve back down, and the snake was still moving over her skin, capturing all of their attention. The air of the office became heavy with their fear, and she found herself disgusted, despite everything.

They had no power. No magic. No –she would have hexed herself for thinking this way only hours ago- _might_. They had nothing but she and Voldemort, which was sickening and worrisome, because it meant that she had nothing. Not the help of the Ministry, or the means to trust the darkest wizard she'd ever known.

 _Hermione?_

She started, eyes tearing away from her friend and focusing on Voldemort. His voice had filtered through her head, gentle and curious and questioning, and she wondered if he knew that's what he sounded like when he was terrorizing people. And as an afterthought, she considered how he was able to even communicate that way.

She had _nothing_.

The locket hummed. It wasn't a choice. Not really. But, she chose him, anyway.

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 **A/N -** _Every update will be a full part, so they will be long like this one._

 _Full disclosure, as I post this, I have no idea how it ends. I still have to finish the last part :O We'll see..._


	2. part two

**A/N -** _Thank you for reading/reviewing/favoriting/following._

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 **PART TWO** _  
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 **V.**

They ended up at an old mansion in Little Hangleton.

It took a minute, and a handful of scouring spells, for the witch to realize that they were in his father's house. She glanced over at him to see that like her, he was studying the area curiously. When he realized that she was watching him, he scowled.

"This place is a dump."

She disagreed. The chandelier hanging above them was made of gold and crystal, and one the rooms were made of stained glass, reminding her of the Catholic school she'd attended before Hogwarts. The floor was made of marble, and his footsteps echoed despite the layer of dust.

"It just needs a little help," she murmured, running a finger over the dust on the grand piano she was standing next to. It wasn't as grimy as it should have been. Casting another scouring spell on the bench, she sat down, her body and mind tired. Her magic felt as though it had been exhausted. "So. What's the plan?"

It was an uncomfortable question for her to ask, as she was used to being the one making those decisions. However, she couldn't deny that when it came to magical skill, she was subservient to him, and it wouldn't help her to be anymore on his bad side than she already was.

He looked at her, his expression as blank and cold as it'd been when he looked more like the monster she knew him to be. "You tell me."

Her head was already spinning with exhaustion. "Pardon?"

He leaned on a window. "You left with me, girl. What was your thinking? What was your plan?"

She tugged a hand through her hair. "To stop you, I suppose, from attempting to corrupt the Wizarding World as they regroup and rebuild."

He didn't believe her. She didn't believe herself, either.

"And, I'm curious to know why you have been civil with me-"

"Oh," he sighed, half tiredly and half out of humor, "My dear little Mudblood girl" –Hermione resisted throwing up the nothingness that made up her stomach at his tone of fondness- "I know you."

"What do you want me to say? I can't know my unconscious desires. I don't know what you want me to say."

She tugged her hands through her curls, attempting to tie them back before giving up in general frustration. "The world is _fucked up_ , you told _me_ that, and I…I don't know why I came with you. I just couldn't stay there. I couldn't do whatever it is that they wanted."

"So, you're here to do what I want."

She scowled, and he shrugged. "I am only calling it as it appears, girl."

"My name is Hermione. Granger, if that isn't too much for you. We're…it would be appreciated if you could use my name."

He was falsely thoughtful for a moment. "Ok, Hermione. If you aren't here to do what I want, why are you here?"

She wasn't sure what he wanted. She wasn't even sure what she wanted, for that matter. Morning light casted jeweled reds, blues, and greens onto the floor, and her body began to protest her sitting up, shoulders sagging and stomach caving.

"It's a new day," she said, mostly to herself. The day had only just started when she'd been dragged into the Forbidden Forest.

"You were unconscious most of yesterday," he told her curtly. "Are you tired? Hungry?"

"Do you care?"

He smiled, forcing her to look away from him. "A bit. You are the only Magical being I have access to, at the moment."

"You could leave the country."

He gave her a curious look. "Yes, but I couldn't bring anyone back. The British Wizarding World is on lockdown."

She didn't really understand what was going on, and wished to get some sleep to clear her mind. He gestured for her to follow him, leading her to a bedroom on the second landing. After casting a few scouring charms, he turned to her and said, "I will find a wand for you to use."

She nodded, and he turned to leave. She followed him to the door, her mouth and jaw working as she attempted to find the words as he watched her.

"I saw an opportunity, and I took it."

He smirked, hands slipping into his robe pockets. "Sweet dreams, little Mudblood."

 **VI.**

It was after nightfall when she awoke.

She wandered the halls, expecting to find Voldemort in the library or a nearby bedroom, until she returned to the piano room. He was sitting on the bench, leaning back gracefully, his elbows on the keys. His eyes opened slowly, and Hermione noticed that he looked better now, his skin less pale and eyes more human.

It took a moment for her to realize that he was waiting on her to say or do something. She hesitated in the doorway before entering and sitting on the ledge below the the largest glass. "I have a theory," she told him.

He smirked. "So do I."

The witch nodded slowly, looking down at her hands in thought. She was, thankfully, levelheaded after resting –she was still more exhausted than she'd ever been though, her magic seeming to weigh down her limbs and mind. Having laid in bed before searching for him, she allowed herself time to cry, and to get a grip on herself. Her new self, really. There was very little space for her to be the know-it-all Gryffindor witch she'd held onto through the war. She was more like a woman now, anyway; one forced into a relationship with a man older, more experienced, and far darker than she was, and she had to be of sound mind and humble nature in order to gain any sort of footing. It wouldn't be easy. But, now, more than ever, the Wizarding world truly relied on her.

There was no _magic_ in Great Britain. Her eyes fell closed as she thought, _No magic but our own._

He hummed, drawing her attention. "Go ahead."

"You first."

He frowned before warning, "You won't like it."

She nodded, twisting a curl around her finger. "It's fine. I don't like you. I don't like this. I don't much like myself right now, either, for causing all of this. Whatever you have to say won't make a difference."

He licked his lips, and he was suddenly more beautiful than he'd been earlier. It was fleeting, though. And she was grateful.

"You misunderstood whoever told you that were the brightest witch of your age. All of you misunderstood, really. I did, very briefly, as well."

"I beg your pardon?"

He smirked. "I've been observing your mind since you were captured, Hermione. It is well structured and you've allowed yourself the right experiences to make yourself valuable. You're methodical. Logical, as you said earlier.

"However…this is expected from someone like you. Well-breed, even in terms of your vermin blood. By nature, you're obsessive. Your fixations and need to be perfect and never-wrong have propelled you further and kept you well read and ahead of others. The war allowed you to become interesting, allowed you to form a truer sense of self, one separate from all of your privileges; but –if things had gone how you planned them-, you would have come to realize that you are, if anything at all, only slightly above average.

"You were praised for your book-knowledge simply because you're a pretty and fortunate Muggleborn. But, in the real world, you would have realized that there are plenty of more valuable people –Draco, for example, as pathetic as we believe him to be; Pansy, despite, perhaps, not being as intelligent; even your precious Weasley family, in all of their poverty- who are just as knowledgeable as you. More so, really, considering their predisposition to do well in this world, and their natural gift of discretion, of course."

Her face and hands felt hot. She realized that she'd been fingering the locket, and stopped, glancing over to see that he was staring dead at her. "What's your _point_ , Riddle?"

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm saving us both a lot of time, my dear. My point is that you don't need to fight me. I know you. I understand.

"You claim that you saw an opportunity, and you took it. Don't allow yourself time to regret or think twice. Focus. Understand that you need me. That we need each other. And allow yourself this opportunity to learn who you are. To become truly extraordinary. This is what you've always wanted."

"To be extraordinary?"

He looked at her as though she'd missed the entire point. He was so unimpressed that she felt the locket smarting against her skin. She rubbed her thumb against the underside.

"To make a real difference in the Wizarding world. One beneficial to Magical and Muggleborn beings alike –which, I'm sure I don't need to tell you, your vision lacked before."

She bit her lip, looking up at him nervously. The locket thrummed between her fingers. "They won't allow it. They won't allow _you_ ," she didn't have to say anything more about his crimes or obvious insanity, "or me, who is complicit in this, to rebuild. They won't give us that power."

He laughed, truly laughed, so handsomely that Hermione finally understood how he'd gotten through his earlier life undetected. He'd managed to cut her down in just a few words; and, if she were a weaker witch, they would have truly broken her. He'd also left just enough excitement and inspiration into his tone to draw her in.

He was dangerous. He was too in control. She needed to be the same.

"Oh, my filthy little witch. They've no choice."

 **VII.**

She never got around the explaining her own theory to him. Instead, she allowed him to take her to dinner –to alter her clothes and magic her hair into place and glamour the exhaustion written over her face into whatever it was he desired of her. She wasn't sure why, but she needed him to believe. She needed him under the impression that he was in control, and that she was under it.

She also needed time to process what he'd said, and he seemed content with existing in silence. For what it was worth, he was right; and she wasn't really prepared to deal with what that meant. And, she was still so very _tired_.

At his encouraging, the waitress filled both of their glasses to the brim, and placed the bottle in a tableside wine bucket.

Hermione waited until she was gone to look up at Voldemort. He seemed oddly preoccupied, and a little bit amused. "She thinks we're lovers," he told her, humoredly smiling as he watched the waitress hurry around.

She gathered that they were in Muggle Italy, a heavily toured part by the amount of different languages she heard around the patio. She'd never considered the rules on international travel as a witch, but guessed it didn't matter much if the rest of the world knew that Britain was on lockdown. They were more than likely under the radar.

"It's rude to pry into peoples minds, Riddle. Not to mention illegal."

He didn't seem to even hear her. "Breaking up, she hopes."

"That's all very disturbing." She rubbed her face tiredly before taking a sip of her wine. Propping her elbows on the table, she pushed her hair out of her face and continued to stare at Voldemort.

He relaxed into his chair, drawing his knee over his leg as he watched her with half-lidded eyes.

It was hard to decide what to make of him. Along with being dangerous and controlling, he was growing more and more handsome, as though it was taking him time to perfect existing in this day and age. There was a quiet confidence in every inch of him, though, and a false honesty that shined in his face. The only part of him that reminded her that he was even remotely horrible was the endless darkness of his eyes. They seemed to devour every inch of light offered, and the longer he stared at her, the more she felt the need to peel her skin away from her bone and offer it to him.

If she hadn't known him, she would have found him beautiful and mysterious. But, because she was getting to know him, she understood why those around him had always seemed so desperate, obsessed, and borderline insane.

"I don't think that we should work together," she told him.

His brow rose.

"I am not sure that I am prepared to, mentally or emotionally, and I don't believe that you are either. Aside from the obvious, we don't compliment each other. We will only be at each others throats, and nothing will get done."

"I think that in any universe you and I were to exist in, we would have this conversation at least a hundred times."

"That is unsurprising."

He gave her a heard look. "You're certain we'll get nothing done?"

"Yes. And, anyway, I have this burning desire to kill you, and I'm not certain I can suppress it for much longer."

He chuckled, sipping his wine. The pale of his throat was distracting as he swallowed. "The feeling is shared, love."

"That isn't to say that I don't want the Wizarding world back for Great Britain, because I do. The fact of the matter is that there are children being born right now, who would have been unaffected by the spell. They will need a place to learn and grow in the future, because we can't be certain that other countries will step in to help –after all, you stated earlier that they are unable to access our world.

"I think that it will be easy for us, if you focus most of your efforts in determining how right this situation, as great magic seems to be your forte. And I will focus on my energy on helping them rebuild. We will need each other's correspondence, as the very least, to ensure that we are both on task and unfazed by the desire to," she frowned, considering her words. "By the desire to consume."

"Consume what?" His fingers drummed the table. He looked as though he already knew the answer.

She shrugged. "You tell me."

He smirked. "Imagine that."

"Huh?"

"If we are only concerned for those being born today, they will be our new Purebloods. Mudbloods." He laughed bitterly, finishing his wine with a large swallow. "Imagine that, Granger. You, merciful saint of ragtag witches and wizards. _Charming._ "

The waitress hurried over to refill his glass, and he ordered two shots of tequila.

"This isn't a _party_ , Riddle. It isn't a joke. This is serious. This is greater than you and your prejudice-"

"Oh. That."

She felt as though he had hit her, his words causing her to rear back with widened eyes.

He turned his glass three times, watching the action as though it meant something. "I am not concerned with blood."

"Since _when_? For as long as I've known of you, that's been you're _only_ concern. Blood and power."

She returned with the tequila shots, salt on one side of the rim and a lemon poised on the other. He pushed one in her direction with his knuckles.

"You've already answered your question. You've known _of_ me."

She gave him a flat look, feeling as though he was playing her. Any moment, he'd take out his wand and kill her. She was sure of it.

"Blood became a concern later. It was more for my followers than it was for myself."

"What?"

He grinned and took his shot, biting the flesh off the lemon slice. "I have valued three things, Hermione. Intelligence, which I'm sure we can agree is hard to come by in the Wizarding world, for whatever reason; natural talent, and power-"

"You've _killed_ people, in cold blood, Riddle, with those qualities. How can you say you value them, if you're just going to murder those who possess them?"

"Why?" He questioned introspectively.

For a moment, he seemed like a different person. Like he was fighting some battle she wasn't privy to. The locket offered no explanation.

"Because I like control, as well, love. I desire it. If they'd valued their lives over their morals, they would all still be here today. We wouldn't be sitting here now. In fact, I dear say you'd have liked the world I envisioned before-"

"Don't you _dare_!"

He seemed startled, and her face felt flushed with anger. "You're doing nothing to help that waitress' idea of us, you know? You've been flustered since we got here."

She ignored him. "I am _this_ close to leaving, do you understand me?"

He finished the mussels he was eating, and the waitress came over to take away their empty plates. "Of course I understand you, love, don't be silly- excuse me, would you mind bringing us a dessert menu?"

Hermione smiled tightly at the waitress when she returned with the list. "You're _sick_ ," she told him lowly. "You're sick, and I truly can't believe-"

She inhaled violently, unable to complete her sentence as she willed herself not to cry. She'd already gotten angrier than she'd wanted to, and the last thing she needed to do was start crying and hyperventilating in the middle of Italy. In front of Lord Voldemort, for that matter.

Running her fingers through her hair, she considered how lucky she would have been if the spell had taken her magic, too.

"You don't wish that," he told her lowly.

Her eyes were wide when she looked back at him. "Get out of my head."

"You said it out loud." He rubbed his bottom lip before taking a sip of his wine. "And you don't mean it."

He seemed as though he was convincing himself more than he was telling her, and she recalled that he was crazy. Truly and genuinely out of his mind; and if his twenty-year-old self wasn't indisposed yet, he would be soon enough. And he was all she had right now.

Hermione picked up her wine glass and chugged it. The waitress brought over an assortment of biscotti and a large slice of tiramisu with two forks, refilling her glass before leaving.

He grinned, all teeth and dimples and allure. "I am in control now, Hermione. It is my God-given right to rebuild this world how I see fit, and it's as though I am finally one myself." He leaned toward her, as though he was going to share a secret with her.

For the first time, his gaze trapped her in place. She was interested and hanging, even if she didn't want to be. It was sickening and worrisome and only helped to solidify her earlier statement. She wasn't prepared. She was tired and weak and he was Lord _fucking_ Voldemort.

"And, to keep me sane and happy and entertained, I have my own filthy, needy, power-hungry little angel."

They continued to watch each other, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. His smile faded, desire filling his eyes. She had no idea what it was for.

He leaned back into his seat confidently, lifting a piece of the cake to his lips, and she saw it. It wasn't in anything he did –because he was irrationally perfect, in a way she really did desire to be-, but instead in how the locket reacted. It tugged and pulled and urged and-

He was weak and starved and needed her if he wanted any of this to work.

She reached for her shot glass, half raising it, and smiled slowly as he nodded his head in toast. Tapping it against the table, she swallowed the salt and alcohol easily. As an afterthought, she sucked the lemon.

It was a power play.


	3. part three

**A/N -** _Thank you for reading/reviewing/favoriting/following._

* * *

 **PART THREE**

 **VIII.**

He hadn't accepted her request to go separate ways, and instead dragged her through four different countries, never staying too long in one city or village, almost aimlessly.

It wasn't until they reached Morocco that Hermione realized she'd been introduced to a world of dark intellect and magic that she enjoyed wrapping her head around. Every place they visited was tucked secretly away, in a corner of a Wizarding town or in the middle of the Muggle world. Everyone one of Voldemort's associates were so quiet and assuring –and lacked the racist, fascist nature she expected them to possess to have any sort of relationship with him- that she found herself forgetting that they weren't _her_ friends. That he wasn't…right.

However, for as brilliant as everyone seemed to be, they seemed confused when she questioned them about their problem. They were no closer to determining how to fix it, and while he seemed unaffected by their lack of progress, she felt nearly ready to pull her own hair out. It'd been two months, and while she'd learned plenty and enjoyed herself in a way that wouldn't have been possible with her own friends, she felt sick with emotions she couldn't quite name.

It was also becoming increasing difficult to deal with Voldemort. Not that he'd done anything wrong, but because he _hadn't._ She felt uncertain and unprepared to deal with an attractive wizard with no faults. He was scholarly and curious and not at all what she'd thought he'd be; though, that wasn't to say that he wasn't _horrible_.

He was sometimes unnecessarily rude and disturbingly aloof. Every now and then, his eyes would grow so distant and blank that she was sure his face would morph into the Voldemort she knew, but, that was it. The worst name he'd called her was filthy, and –admittedly- sometimes she was (there weren't always showers to use in their travels, and magic only worked for so long), so she couldn't really be upset with the word, especially when he used it with no bite.

His lack of venom left her uncertain of her standing, though she didn't question it. He was still dangerous –it lurked in conversations with strangers, or when he encouraged her to practice dueling with various travellers-, still in control.

He was so strong, so willful and captivating, and she was still so weak. All of their travelling and the Dark magic left her feeling heavy and empty, as though she was dragging around dead weight. And she was still lost and learning and –though it pained her to admit- so vulnerable, attempting to gain quiet footing in his world of secret magical corners and dark wills and desires.

There were still moments that she was sure they needed to split up –that she needed to remind herself who she was and what she was playing with- before they lost themselves to whatever spell he was under, but he insisted that it wasn't in their best interest to split up yet.

 _Yet_.

 **IX.**

"Hermione?" He tugged at a strand of hair to get her attention.

She took off her sun hat and rubbed her curls, pushing baby hairs away from her face before putting it back on. They'd just gotten to Marrakesh, and fortunately, they were staying at a real hotel, which meant they'd do nothing for the next few days –she'd learned that about him: he liked to spend about two weeks on the go, living uncomfortably and spending every waking moment _out_ , before settling for a few days and regaining a sense of self.

"Did you hear anything I said?" He asked lowly, still holding the curl he'd pulled. He twisted it around his finger ideally, and she could tell –despite the fact that he was wearing dark sunglasses- that he was focused on the task. He always was.

"No. I was…thinking." She wasn't really sure that she was, though. It was something she'd experienced a lot of in their downtime, almost as though she just wasn't _there_ until someone started talking to her.

"Of me?" He grinned, glancing at the hotel manager as he passed.

"Mr. and Mrs. Riddle," the manager greeted charmingly.

Voldemort had told them that they were on their honeymoon, likely in hopes of increased privacy, but there was a strange lack of guests at the small, Muggle hotel –they were two of eight lodgers, and the only young people-, which only served to make everyone more attentive.

"I trust that you all are enjoying yourselves?"

"Yes, sir," Voldemort smiled back. More charmingly. Daringly, even. "Very much. Isn't that right, my dear?" He let go of her hair, leaning forward to wet his hand in the pool their feet were in.

"Yes. It is so easy to forget the rest of the world here," she looked up at the manager and offered her own smile.

There was an odd look in his eye as he watched them. She'd noticed it when they arrived a day earlier, but said nothing after having sensed no magic on him, or the property.

"Yes it is, Mrs. Riddle. Is there anything I can get for you all?"

"Perhaps someone could bring over a dessert menu? And a wine list?"

Voldemort smirked at her request and the manager agreed, disappearing into the sea of flowers and small trees that made up the garden around the pool. They didn't talk until she'd ordered a number of desserts and a bottle of sweet wine.

"He's um…he's odd," she told him, sipping a glass of champagne that the manager had sent over.

Voldemort nodded, drawing his wet fingers over her knee and onto her thigh, drawing runes into her skin. At length, he offered her his glass of champagne in exchange for the strawberry resting at the bottom of her flute. "What were you thinking about?"

She hummed, leaning back on one hand. "I can't remember."

He chuckled. His hand was still wet when he lifted it to touch the locket, dripping water on her shirt and the bared skin of her chest. It soaked into the bikini top she was wearing beneath. "I wouldn't have been given this opportunity if you hadn't kept this."

She already knew that. She'd known that since the night in Riddle House. He was reliant on her in a way he ignored so casually that she sometimes wondered if it was necessary for her to keep the locket on at all (in fact, she'd tested it one evening after he'd gone to bed; she'd taken it off and left it on the bathroom counter, watching as he tossed and turned and nearly cried all night. He'd woken up exhausted, looking nearly dead, just before sunrise, and stumbled into the bathroom before shaking her 'awake' and offering the necklace to her. She doubted he even remembered. But she always knew).

"I'm a sell out," she told him lowly, offering a small smile to the waiter that brought over their order.

He poured a taste of the wine for Voldemort, waiting to ensure its quality before appropriately filling their glasses. When the waiter left, he filled them to the brim, and frowned at the plate of stuffed dates before eating one. She picked up a piece of the m'hancha.

"You cannot doubt your actions," he told her, watching as she unbuttoned her shirt and tossed it over to one of the beach chairs they'd been using. "What you're doing, what _we_ are doing, is important and vital."

"We don't even know what Britain needs! We've not been back. We've not read a paper or had contact with _anyone_ , and we haven't _done_ anything, Riddle. At least, nothing out of the ordinary for you.

"I, however, have hung out with too many dark wizards, practiced and used too much dark magic… _enjoyed_ too much, even. I'm a sell out…I'm not doubting what we're supposed to be doing. I doubt what we _are_ doing. Because it goes against everything I stand for." As an afterthought, she added, "And I am so _tired_."

He finished his wine too quickly and poured himself another glass. As a waitress came around with water, he ordered another bottle. "I doubt anyone could get you to do something you don't want to do, Hermione," he told her thoughtfully.

She ignored him.

As the second bottle arrived, he asked, "You think you're a sell out for finally enjoying yourself? For finally attempting to reach your potential?"

She finished the pastry and grabbed a mini fruit tart. "Yes. My morals are so compromised I'm not even sure I can be forgiven."

"Boo-hoo," he murmured, lying back on the ground. A snake slithered out of the garden and over to him, coiling into the warmth his body provided. "Please reengage with me once you've gotten over yourself, little Mudblood."

She dropped her glass, spilling it over the platter of dates. He half sat up, grinning. "Now _that's_ a dessert," he laughed, reached for another, and ate it as though it was the best food he'd ever had.

It'd been months since she'd heard that word. She hadn't even thought of it, or recalled that it was something he used against her. Hearing him use it reminded her too greatly that she was _with_ Voldemort. That she'd kept him alive. That the state of British Wizarding world was her own fault.

Her heart pounded violently against her chest, as though it was threatening the locket…threatening _her_.

He righted her glass, plucking the one broken piece from the platter center and dropping it into the bowl before offering her his glass. She fumbled, and he instead placed it to the side, closer to her than it had been before. The water glasses were larger, and he downed his before pouring the rest of the first bottle into it.

"Did you forget what you are, love?" He asked gently, licking his lips. "I didn't. Believe me though, my dear, I've tried."

She narrowed her gaze, watching as a slow smile tugged the corner of his lips. He ate another date, sucking the wine off his fingers.

"You said it didn't matter."

"Not to me," he told her plainly. "But it matters to you, love. The fact that you even care about it is such an interesting disappointment."

"If you'd like to discuss disappointments, _Riddle_ , I'd truly be happy to indulge you."

The locket smarted. She ignored it.

"You are, after all, a product of excessive force and obsession."

"Granger," he warned.

"A Muggle father that thought you disgusting, leaving you to rot in a poor, filthy orphanage. A mother so insane that she drugged him to have you, and then couldn't even manage to have you-"

He flinched. She knew it was too low of a blow. She should have stopped.

"Such a sad sense of sense self-worth that you needed forever to validate your existence, one you've destroyed and made worthless. An army of followers that remained out of fear, not faith." She looked away from him, tilting her chin to the sky and allowing the sun to warm her throat. "And now, you rely on _me_ , the scum of the Wizarding world, according to your earlier beliefs, not only to keep you _sane_ and _happy_ and enter _tained_ , but alive- don't think me such a naïve fool not to know that.

"I _know_ , Riddle, and I've allowed you free reign because I understand my place. I understand that in this situation, you have far more connections and experience, and I _need_ you if I want magic returned to Great Britain. But don't think, even for a second, that you are any better than I am, that I can't walk away from this, or that you _own_ me, because you aren't, I can, and I'd rot in hell before I ever belonged to the likes of you. A filthy, insecure, mess of wizard."

She laughed, pulling off her hat and tossing it toward her shirt. She grabbed her sunglasses and pushed them onto her face, glancing over at him presumptuously. "A _joke_ as a Dark ruler."

Voldemort was watching her blankly, both glasses of wine gone and his sunglasses pushed into his curls. Beneath the pale white of the button up he was wearing, she saw his chest rising and falling quickly. His eyes were as dark as she'd ever seen them, more endless and vengeful and _dead_.

"Are you done, love?" There was nothing to his voice.

She licked her lips, dipping her hands into the water and rubbing them over her arms and chest. "I could go on." She turned the locket so it fell over her back, ensuring that it wouldn't ruin the tan she was suddenly ready to work on, murmuring the spell to end the sun-blocking charm she'd been using.

"Please, do."

She ate another fruit tart before leaning back on her elbows and forearms. The soles of her feet rested on the edge of the pool. Her voice was quiet as she said, "I don't think you're ready for what else I have to say. I've…I've already said too much."

Voldemort sat up, pulling off his shirt and sliding into the pool. Hermione watched him swim for a moment, contemplating what it meant that he hadn't drawn his wand on her yet. Lying back, she pulled the locket around and held it, attempting to remember the life that radiated from the core after Ron butchered it.

She remembered fear and longing, followed quickly by the ideas of strength and being indestructible that young boys tended to have. She couldn't feel much of anything now. From time to time, it would react with Voldemort, giving her more insight to his emotions, or she could feel it pulling energy from her, however gently and subtly. But, what was left of the soul within had vanished when he casted the killing curse, rendering it mostly powerless (if you paid little attention to the fact that it needed life to provided life), reminding her only of the person she'd been before.

Frowning, she sat up to find Voldemort standing directly in front of her in the water. She yelped, attempting to scramble backward, but he grabbed her ankle at the last moment. His grip was gentle, encouraging her to come back, but she couldn't ignore the insanity that pulsed from him, shining in his eyes.

"Relax," he murmured. "Come back, love."

He let go of her ankle and she hesitated, but did as he asked, her bum on the edge of the pool as he moved to stand next to her. His curls were soaking wet, hanging around his face with the weight of the water; and his lashes clumped together, long and dark as they swept his cheeks. She ignored the water rolling down his jaw and neck and chest, focusing on his face as he leaned against the edge as well, chest flexing involuntarily.

"I've learned more than you could attempt to comprehend, Miss Granger, over the years, especially as of late. Where you have considered our tasks pointless and wasteful over the last few months, I have found them eye opening and reassuring," his words hung in the air, heavy and loaded and incomplete. He licked his lips, seeming to calm himself down.

"I will respect that you haven't noticed. I will also continue to respect you being your own person, and experiencing the world in your unique little _Muggleborn_ way."

Again, she flinched. He spoke the word "Muggleborn" more hatefully than he ever had Mudblood, and it hurt more than it should have. It was too telling.

"However, my dear girl," Voldemort smirked, leaning in. His nose brushed her cheek, fingers curling around her wrist as he turned his face into her hair and inhaled. It was the closest he'd even been to her. Her mind reeled in fear and longing, on the borderline of insanity herself. She wasn't sure if they were her emotions or his.

As he spoke again, his lips smoothed over her ear too familiarly. "My sweet little filthy, fallen _angel_." His thumb brushed over the tattoo she kept glamoured, and she felt it stirring to attention. Her breath caught in her throat, and he smiled against her, drawing an arm around her shoulders and forcing her to lean into his chest. His chin rested on her hair.

"Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Riddle; are you all through with these?"

She attempted to pull away, but couldn't. The fingers on her shoulder drew more runes into her skin, as his thumb continued to brush over the tattoo. Her eyes fell closed as he hummed appreciatively.

"Yes, please, thank you. Sorry about the wine glass. My love got a little too excited."

"It is fine," the waiter replied, obviously embarrassed.

"I'll be over in a moment to settle up. Would you be able to ensure two more bottles of wine are in our room when we return there? Your best Moroccan Clairette blanche. Some cheese and more of those tarts, as well, please, she enjoys them."

He kissed her hair. Hermione shuddered.

"Right away, sir," the waiter seemed uncomfortable now.

She heard his foot steps hurry away, and felt Voldemort's hold on her lessen, his fingers wrapping around the side of her neck as he held her near to him.

His lips were back on her ear as he said, "You _are_ mine."

 **X.**

The stayed at the hotel for a week, slowly becoming their favorite lodgers. On what she knew was their last night, she laid down on the couch across from the seat he'd taken, an incredible amount of texts and newspapers on the table between them. He acknowledged her only long enough to pass her a stack of notes. She rolled from her back into her stomach, grabbing a pencil before reading them over.

"What have you learned of the manager?" It was the first he'd mentioned him since she had.

"Nothing interesting. Ex-pat with no connection to his home country –not even a key chain or magnet. He lives few blocks away, with his pregnant wife. I…I sensed magic in the area, but noticed a couple of _old_ witches in the neighborhood, so I'm not certain if came from his flat. It could the unborn child leaving traces; neither parent is magical."

He sighed. "He is the only living Karkaroff."

"As in Igor Karkaroff?"

"His estranged brother, actually. He was much older, about ten or so years younger than Dumbledore, and joined Grindelwald's regime."

"That doesn't," Hermione sighed and sat up, "There is not even a _trace_ of magic on the manager, Riddle."

"The brother betrayed Grindelwald. His children were stripped of their magic, all six of them. Barbarically. The oldest of the bunch was our manager, aged 7 at the time, and he managed to survive the stripping. His parents begged Grindelwald to let him live as a Muggle before they were murdered."

As an afterthought, he said, "The child must be a wizard. They were an incredible talented family. You can strip blood, but genes-"

"You think magic resides in blood _and_ genes?"

"Where do you believe it comes from, Miss Granger?"

"No," she set the notes he'd given her to the side. "No. You don't believe that. Because it would mean there are _no_ Muggleborns, only children born to people carrying the genes."

"Another theory is that Muggleborns steal it, creating Squibs," he grinned at her crazed expression. "But, I must say that them being born to Squib descendants is more plausible."

" _No_ ," she got up, pacing the room. "You _can't_ believe that, Voldemort. It is unfair. It is sickening. Riddle. You can't…is this a new belief?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what was the _point_?!" She kicked a nearby bookshelf, knocking a vase over.

He frowned at her before casting a _repairo_.

"You killed people. You…killed children. You _abused_ the minds of vulnerable, possibly great wizards and witches-"

"I _told_ you, Hermione. Power. Control. Those were the points," he seemed frustrated that he still had to explain it to her.

"And do not delude yourself, love. I will not deny murder, but I won't allow you to claim that the wizards that followed me could have been your type of _great_. They needed only reason to turn their wands on Muggleborns and Half-bloods. They needed only validation and protection and reassurances. I provided that in order to achieve my goals, because avoidance of unnecessary death was not a priority of mine –and it still isn't, really, but I understand that it's one of yours."

He watched her pace the room, shaking her head and rubbing her forehead.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he told her, not at all apologetic.

"But you were so _hateful_. So _cruel_. How could you not believe?"

"I was in control. Muggleborns and Blood traitors were increasingly becoming threats to that control." He shrugged.

Hermione picked up the vase and threw it at him. It hit the floor a few feet from where he sat, but Voldemort jumped up, crossing the room and gripping her shoulders. She fought him, attempting to get him to draw his wand: to hit her or hurt her or do _something_ familiar.

She felt the locket attempting to soothe her. Saw the tenseness in his shoulders. It all meant nothing compared to the bitter anger and hatred she felt, to the exhaustion that flooded her entire body.

"Years!" She heard herself shouting, having no idea what more she'd said to him. "My entire childhood! My friends lives!" She shoved away from him, putting space between them, her chest rising and falling so quickly that it physically hurt. The locket continued its attempts to calm her. Her fingers ached to hit him. To curl around her wand and break him the way he'd broken so many people. " _Wasted_! Do you hear me? We were all wasted because of you, you sick fucking piece of _trash_. Do you understand that? Do you understand what you've _done_?"

She forced her hair out of her face.

"Yes."

She screamed, picking up another vase and throwing it at a wall. "You're a liar! You're a filthy fucking liar- and _stop_ trying to influence my emotions! I have every right to be _hurt_ and _upset_.

"I could...my life would be so _different_." She closed her eyes so she wouldn't cry, suddenly feeling more sadness than anything else. "My parents- my friends- my _education_. I will never have any of that back. I will never _graduate_ from Hogwarts. Do you realize that? Do you understand?"

He was too calm. "Yes, Hermione. I've seen your mind. I understand."

"Instead, I'm stuck with _you_. I'm forced to live with the fact that this is my fault. That you're continued existence is _my_ fault. Don't tell me you understand, because you _don't_. And you don't care, either. You really don't care who or what you destroy, so long as you get exactly what you want."

Her hands were shaking as she paced, tugging at her hair and the locket and rubbing at the tattoo moving against her skin. "I'm just a means to an end until you get what you want. I've allowed myself to forget that...that…you're so disgusting, Riddle. I cannot believe how disgusting _I_ am. How _responsible_."

"None of this was your fault, love. It was written-"

She crossed the room and slapped him before she realized what she was doing. It helped to calm her. She did it again and again until he stopped her, his fingers tight around her wrist and cheek red with her handprint.

"Why aren't you fighting back?" She asked him, voice quiet. "Why haven't you punished me?"

He shook his head so slightly that she wasn't sure she'd seen it. "I told you, Hermione."

She pulled out of his hold and moved to sit back down, her face hot and body exhausted. "So. I do not believe in the blood theory, but I do believe in the gene theory, relatively speaking. Magic is a mutation. The Wizarding World, and the idea of Purebloods, exists because those with magic needed each other to survive. On their own, they were not safe; they were too different. As they reproduced more and more with each other, the mutation became dominant in their gene pool –this is why, every now and then, you'll find Squibs. People are still carrying the non-magical trait, its simply recessive.

"Squibs have squibs, squibs met, they have children that carry the magical trait. Muggles have children and the gene mutates. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Voldemort had reclaimed his seat, relaxing comfortably as he listened. Very slowly, he nodded.

"What we have to determine is _how_ Grindelwald mutated that fucked up gene so much that it completely wiped out the manager's magic, figure out how it was similar to the spells you casted, and create the counters."

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he let his head fall back. "You've grown since we've met."

"Obviously."

He was smiling when he looked back at her. "I've a contact in Dubai who claims access to one of the greatest libraries of all time. We'll meet tomorrow to determine the truth of this belief. Regardless of whether or not is it great, we will see if there is anything helpful to your theories."

"You really hadn't thought of that?"

"I've known that we need to understand the similarities to spells casted since you recognized that there was something odd about the manager. I'd thought it was his wife, actually –because he did have a twin sister."

"Which is why you've been chummy with him? You wanted to meet her."

"Yes."

She nodded. "It's likely still beneficial. Studying the make up of the unborn child's magic could be helpful. If my theory is a working one, there was a very small chance that their child be Magical, because the mutation is recessive, and she's Muggle."

Voldemort licked his lips. "You're tired. Lets go to bed and think about this more in the morning. I will push back the meeting so that you have an extra day of rest." He got up, and she did too, following him to their bedroom.

Because he'd told them they were honeymooning, they'd been sharing a bed. Fortunately, it hadn't been a problem. It was huge, and he allowed her to build a wall of pillows down the middle for peace of mind.

"That's unnecessary. I finally have a sense of purpose. We've wasted the week as it is."

He gave her an odd look before turning his back to her and undressing. She slipped into the bathroom, already dressed for bed, and washed her face.

When she returned, he asked, "Would you like a drink?"

"Water, please."

He grabbed two bottles from their mini fridge and climbed into his side of the bed, passing one over to her once she'd gotten comfortable.

"You won't do that again, Miss Granger."

She let her head fall back onto the headboard. "I can't make any promises."

He leaned over the pillow-wall, and she opened her eyes to look at him. "We will have civil conversations, as adults should, or we will not discuss anything at all."

"Ok."

"And you will not hit me again."

"If you promise not to touch me, I won't hit you."

He smirked, moving back to his side of the bed. "I will not touch you if you do not ask me to, unless there is an imminent threat."

She magicked the lights off, and they sat in silence as they finished their water. When he left for the bathroom, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, listening as the shower cut on. Very briefly, she allowed herself to cry, sobbing into the underside of her pillow for the three minutes it took him to bathe, glamouring her face just before he returned.

Voldemort stood over her side of the bed, his eyes focused and clear. She sat up, pushing the hair escaped from her braid out of her face. "Take off the locket," he breathed, hand ready for it.

She reached behind herself to unclasp it, but didn't hand it over right away. Despite the fact that it was his, and the initial connection she had with it was gone, it didn't feel right offering it to someone else. Even the locket seemed to protest. "I'd rather not have to deal with the consequences of it not being in my possession."

"It is more than clear that I have taken too much from you, Hermione. I have enough of your energy in reserve."

She wondered how much it took for him to admit that, and quickly dropped the locket into his awaiting palm, laying back down and pulling the covers over her shoulders.

"You'll tell me if you need more."

He was quiet for so long that she thought he'd fallen asleep. It was only when she felt him move, and felt his breath in her hair that she realize he was wide awake.

"You'll know."


	4. part four

**A/N -** _Thanks for reading/reviewing/favoriting/following!_

* * *

 **PART FOUR**

 **XI.**

"Its too bad Grindelwald is dead," Hermione groaned, pushing away the text she was reading. She rubbed her face tiredly, eyes exhausted and mind aching. "It would be so much easier to just _ask_ him what was done."

Voldemort hummed in response, and she got the feeling he hadn't really heard her. He was very much engrossed in a book that had nothing to do with their task, his mouth moving as he read.

"It's too bad you killed him," she murmured, propping her elbows on the table and crossing her arms over her chest, fingers wrapping around her shoulders. Leaning into the table, her chin came to rest on the crease of her arm as she continued to watch him.

"Yes," he remarked, his tone making it clear that he was simply being polite by responding. He had no idea what she was talking about.

"I wonder how much it costs to buy this place." Her eyes lifted to the library ceiling for a moment, observing the artwork on the dome they were sitting under. "Probably a lot, huh?"

"Yeah," he bit out, moving a little closer to the table. His fingers fiddled with the top of the page he was reading.

Hermione was struck by how young he looked- how handsome and studious and unthreatening in the gentle lighting. The very top of the dome was made of glass, allowing the evening sun to affect the area they were sitting in, casting a pink light over everything, making it all seem _ok_. For a moment, she made believe they were college students, because that was really what he looked like, and she should have been starting Oxford or at an entry-level Wizarding job, anyway, if…

Voldemort flipped the page, licking his lips and propping his jaw on his fist. Even without the locket, she recognized that he was excited in a way she was all too familiar with.

"Would you buy it for me, if I asked?"

His fingers toyed with the top of his new page. "Yes, love. Whatever."

"Whatever?" She asked, a small smile on her lips.

He hummed in response, again flipping his page.

"I can have it, then?"

They'd discussed their money before, when he realized he didn't how she paid for things when he wasn't around. His name was on all of his dead followers' accounts, aside from the fact that he seemed to have plenty of money on his own; and, although her parents were safely tucked away in Australia, they were as good as dead in England, and their estate had fallen into her hands the moment she turned 18.

"Huh?"

He looked up at her, his curls falling into his eyes and face flushed from his earlier excitement. He pushed them away as an afterthought.

She grinned at him, slowly and indulgently, forgetting, if only for a moment, that they weren't friends. "That wasn't very fair of me, was it?"

He waited a moment before saying, "No."

She licked her lips, sitting up and pulling her feet into her chair. "Don't worry. I won't hold you to anything." She was still smiling, but recalled that she really shouldn't tease him, and looked down at the table instead. "You should probably give me the locket back now, though. It's obvious that you aren't all here anymore." She, on the other hand, felt better than she'd felt in months. Her exhaustion lifted, causing her mood and magic to improve as well.

He looked back down at his book, considering her words, and she chanced another look at him. With the locket mentioned, he seemed to age a bit, looking as though he didn't quite belong with her in the 90s anymore.

It wasn't something she wanted to dwell on, and she reached an arm across the table, palm open. It'd been a week, anyway. Far longer than she expected him to last.

"Also, I'd like to go get dinner and a bed."

They were working again, which meant they were constantly moving. The library he'd been given access to had been broken down over the years, locations moving to different corners of the UAE to keep Muggles away from them, and they'd moved to a new one every other day. This was their first night in a small village close to Oman, and they were the only people in the building. His contact had informed them that the librarian would met them tomorrow afternoon, but they agreed they felt more comfortable without someone else's eyes.

"Ok." Voldemort casted a protection charm over the table as he stood up, not bothering to hand over the locket. "I'll come back tonight to finish my research."

"What _are_ you researching?" She asked as they headed for the exit.

"Nothing you need to worry about," he told her, pushing the door open.

They exited onto the edge of an alleyway, looking out onto a street. To Muggles, it would have appeared as though they'd taken a shortcut.

"There is a Wizarding district just down the road," he told her. "We'll get you fed and a room there. Do you think you'll be okay on your own tonight?"

She frowned at him, offended that he would think otherwise. "Will you?"

He ignored the question. "May I glamour you?"

"Why?"

"This is a major Wizarding community, not like the other places we've been. I don't want to run the risk of anyone recognizing you."

"We're in the Middle _East_ , Riddle. Who on earth would recognize me?"

"You never know."

"What would it matter, anyway?"

She sighed disgustedly when he only tapped his wand against his thigh, waiting for her to agree. "Fine."

He tapped his wand to her nose annoyingly, smiling as she felt his magic smoothing over her features. He half smiled, eyes dull and face pale. "We'll have to get this off of you as soon as we get to the room."

"You made me _ugly?"_

He laughed, "No. I just prefer your real face, love."

Voldemort tugged her through a shady looking café and into a Wizarding alleyway more crowded than Diagon Alley. True to his words, he took her to small café, sharing a bottle of wine with her as she ate.

As she picked at what was left of her dessert, a rice pudding flavored with saffron and nuts, she asked, "This is the last library, right?"

"Yes."

"What are we going to do after tomorrow? Return to England?"

"No."

She set down her spoon, watching as he sipped his wine. "We can't keep running from it, you know? We aren't really getting any further with this research. We need to apply what we've learned-"

"What have we learned, Hermione?"

She blinked. "What do you mean? We know we need to determine the spell work entrapping our home, Riddle. If we return to Marrakesh, we need to take the Karkaroff up on his offer of dinner with he and his wife, but that isn't _really_ pressing. We have enough…well, I have enough to at least start something. Merlin knows what you've been up to." She reached for her wine glass.

He smirked. "I've gotten in touch with one of Grindelwald's inner circle, love."

She sputtered. "What? When?"

"I've been trying to find them since we started, which is why our travels aren't exactly productive. Yesterday, though, when we stopped for lunch- that man at the counter recognized me from before." He reached for her spoon and tasted the dessert before pulling the ramekin across the table. "I asked him if he knew anything, and he turned out to be the best lead so far."

"You speak Arabic?"

Voldemort grinned. "Supposed insanity aside, love, I'm a total catch." He winked, too.

"And I'm the Queen on England," Hermione told him, shaking her head.

"We could arrange that," he murmured, eyes heavy on hers as he finished the pudding.

She didn't know what to say, and sipped her wine instead.

"He spoke German, fortunately. I learned while I was studying in Frankfurt."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Not much older, I don't think."

"It's incredible that you're allowed to do it all over. It isn't fair, really, considering…you should really have to pay for what you've done."

His eyes narrowed as she finished her wine. He still had half a glass left, and pushed it in her direction. He'd already finished the rest of the bottle. "If I bought the libraries for you, would you stop referring to Voldemort's actions as my own?"

Hermione blinked, her body tense and mind racing. "What are…what are you talking about?"

He shrugged. "You just pointed out that I've been given a second chance. It's not really one if you continue to bring up my past."

"So, you want to buy my silence?"

He just watched her, waiting for an answer.

"It doesn't work like that. I'm responsible for you. I can't allow you to forget. I…I can't forget."

Voldemort settled up and walked with her to an inn. Again, he described them as a married couple, but asked for separate beds. The woman behind the counter didn't bat an eye at the request, leading them to their room slowly. When they reached their home for the night, he sat down at a small table in the corner, waiting for her to shower and settle in.

As she climbed into bed, he stood to leave.

"Oh," she murmured. "You're really going out."

"Back to the library, yes."

"Are you sure that's really wise, Riddle?" She questioned. "You aren't…if one person can recognize, anyone can, and you aren't exactly as stable as you should be."

"Everything should be fine."

"Leave the locket. I'd feel better if you left it."

He gave her an odd look. "Do you care, Hermione?" His voice was teasing as he leaned against the door, watching her curiously.

She frowned at him. "You can hardly travel and learn, and involuntarily _grow_ , with someone for so long and not start to care for them. I can't, at least."

He grinned. "I'll be back before sunrise. We'll go back to the library at midday, after breakfast."

"That's more time than-"

"There are some things I need to finish tonight, before I get some rest."

She turned out the lights with a nonverbal, lying down and listening to him say nothing for a few minutes before finally leaving.

 **XII.**

"Riddle?"

Hermione rubbed her face tiredly, opening her eyes to the dark room. She could hardly make anything out, but sensed another person with her.

"Yeah."

She jumped, nearly falling out of the bed; but his arm wrapped around her, holding her in place. "What is _wrong_ with you? What are you _doing_?" She moved as far away from him as she could on the bed, but it was barely bigger than a twin, and there wasn't much room. "You have your own bed over there."

"I know."

As her eyes adjusted, she realized that he was lying next to her, on his stomach with his head propped up on his hand as he watched her. His hair looked heavy, and he smelt as though he'd bathed in ten different soaps. She realized that he was drunk relatively quickly, and drew her arm over her eyes as she lay back down, sighing tiredly. This wasn't new for them.

"We aren't going back to the library. We're going to go Berlin-"

"Muggle or Magical?" She wasn't sure why she asked. They never went to any major Magical cities.

"Muggle. To meet Raginmund Wiegand, the former head of security at Grindelwald's Nurmengard."

She hummed appreciatively. "Okay." Feeling him just staring, she asked, "Are you going to lay here for the rest of the night?"

"Yeah."

"You'd feel better if you gave me the locket, you know?" She sighed before saying, "Not that it's anything like wearing is when it was a horcrux, in terms of it being sentient, I guess; but, I miss it."

She guessed that he had it in his hand, because she felt it on the soft spot between her ribcage almost instantly. The heat of his hand hovered over her stomach before he let it fall back onto the bed.

"What's wrong?" She asked him, indulging his drunken state. He usually had an incredibly fanciful story of the evening for her when he came back like this.

"How do you think of me?"

 _"_ _What?"_ She pulled her arm off her eyes and turned to look at him.

"I hadn't thought of it before today, when you told me you couldn't forget. You've called me Voldemort a few times now. Do you think of me like that? Like him?"

"Don't you think of me as Mudblood?"

"No. I think of you as Hermione."

She half sat up, looking down at him and finding it difficult to understand the state he was in. "I think of you as Voldemort."

"I've not once treated you as Voldemort would have."

"What are you saying? That he is a mask you put on?"

"I find it difficult to connect to that part of me, given the situation. Perhaps because I understand."

"Understand what, Riddle? You were Voldemort before you did all those horrible things. You were Voldemort when you were in this body, studying around the world. You were Voldemort when you killed Harry's parents. And when you killed all of your followers, too."

" _I_ was in the locket."

She laid back down, considering his declaration. Before she could come to any real conclusion, he picked up the locket and moved it to rest on her breastplate.

"I was there when they fell. He was, too. More so than I was."

She remembered that he was crazy. That behind all of his intelligence and arrogance and his incredible ability to charm, he wasn't all there. And that wasn't something she could help him with. Because he'd never been all there.

"He was even there when you woke up in the Headmaster's office. I'm sure he planned to kill you at Riddle House. But it was I when you woke up. The locket's preservation of me, at least; and, I guess, whatever qualities you thought were useful."

"Riddle," she made to move, but he reached out, fingers wrapping around her wrist.

"Think about it," he told her. Even in the darkness, the wide, imploring state of his eyes was evident. "How long have you been wearing the locket? Since they broke it?"

"Yes. Around January…that's all such a blur now."

"And you wore it before that. More than your friends."

"Not necessarily more-"

"Ok," he let go of her wrist. "Better, though. You wore it better than the others. Because you saw something in it you liked. Or, at least, recognized. For _months_ you've been its keeper. You've nurtured it. You _knew_ -"

"Please, stop talking." She got out of bed, silently thankful when he didn't reach for her again. As she paced back and forth, she asked, "This is what you've been researching?"

"Yes."

"Why? Why didn't you say anything?"

"You seem largely uninterested in me, except to remind me of the horror I've caused. I've respected that."

She tugged a hand through her curls. "Have you at _all_ looked into saving England? Don't you care about our home? Don't you want to go home and return her power?"

"What?" His tone was one of such genuine confusion that Hermione nearly screamed. She settled for picking a strand of hair off her shirt and angrily flicking it away.

"You're a drunk, Riddle. You _are_ drunk right now, and you're always crazy. You can't…"

"That's how you think of me, then? As Lord Voldemort, the crazed, drunken failure?" He laughed drily. "I cannot be surprised, can I? You told me that in Marrakesh."

"There is plenty I didn't tell you there, too, Riddle." She sat back down on the bed, half turning toward him. "What am I supposed to do with this information? What do you expect me to say?"

He shrugged. "I don't feel crazy around you. I feel quiet. Closer to god than any man has ever been."

Hermione felt crazy as she stared at him. "So, what are you saying? If I'd always been around, none of this would have happened?"

"All of this had to happen," his voice was oddly solemn. "But now that I know myself, and my mistakes, I can respect your morals and values. I can see where you need me, and I-" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "It's so obvious that we could go far together. That you are the living peace of mind I have always been missing."

"You're so _drunk_ , Riddle. It's incredible, really. You've never been this pissed before."

"Yeah…I have to tell you the truth," he whispered, eyes wide as they watched each other.

"And what's that?"

He didn't say anything for along time. She reached for the locket, wrapping the chain around her wrist and holding the pendant in her hand. "Do you think of me as your mother or something?"

He seemed startled for a moment, before laughing heartily and rolling onto his side. "Merlin, no."

She didn't want to ask the next question, the _obvious_ question, and didn't. Instead, she laid back down, eyes focused on the ceiling. "What does it feel like when I'm not wearing the locket? Do you feel more like him?"

"I feel lost. Empty, or at least on the verge of being empty…Loud, I guess, since I described it earlier as feeling quiet.

"And yes, I do feel more like Voldemort. I've been reminding myself that I don't find you disgusting or want you dead all week."

"He's still alive, then. The monster."

"Yes."

"If I killed you, I'd kill him?" She turned her head to look at him.

He frowned, picking up one of her curls and twisting it around his finger. "Yes."

"Can I kill you?"

He looked at her. "I don't see why you'd want to. I've given you no reason."

She rubbed her eyes tiredly, rolling onto her side so the light from the rising sun wouldn't keep her up. "I can't forget."

"But that's not me, Hermione. Voldemort would have killed you. He wouldn't have realized everything that I have. He would have killed you and died."

"So, you tolerate me to keep you alive?"

"That isn't what I said." He let go of the curl he was holding and reached for another one. "I'm not the same as him. My goals aren't corrupted by desires of anyone else. This was fate, don't you see? All of this was supposed to happen. We're supposed to be here, having this conversation, planning to be everything Britain needs.

"Why else would you have held onto the locket? What other reason, but this right now? For me to be _better_. Greater. In power…the right kind, this time."

He was crazy. They'd always known that. He was highly intelligent and incredibly crazy, and she was _responsible_ for him.

"I told you before, it was written."

She closed her eyes. "You still haven't told me whatever truth you got so pissed to share with me."

"I'm trying."

She wasn't sure if that was it or not. "You aren't going to remember this in the morning. You never do."

He smiled softly. "We do this often?"

"'This' being you getting too drunk and talking crazy? Yes."

Hermione sat up enough to readjust the covers, pulling them over her shoulders. She closed her eyes, willing him to do the same as he continued to fiddle with her curls.

Just before she fell back asleep, he whispered, "Hermione?"

She hummed in response.

"Could you stop thinking of me as Voldemort?"

She opened one eye to see that he was paying her no mind. She closed it. "Probably not."

"Call me Tom, then."

They were both quiet for a long time. She knew he was still awake, fingers still in her hair and eyes wide as he watched her, and assumed he thought she'd fallen asleep when he touched her face, his fingers trailing down the bridge of her nose and around her lips.

He sighed tiredly.

"Call me Tom, and I'll remember."

* * *

 **A/N -** So. To continue along the lines of full disclosure, I finished the fic today. I'm really excited about it, but I'm going to stick to the every other day updating. There are 3 more parts, and the possibility of an epilogue if it turns out ok idk tho bc I'm working on personal writing as well so ~ we'll see.

Also, part XII was my absolute favorite to write because I _love_ tender, weirdo Tom. There was so much more of that scene that I just had to cut because it negated too much of their future relationship but omg if Tom Riddle playing with Hermione's curls doesn't do your heart in idk what will.

ALSO (almost forgot) THE TRUTH ! I wondered if anyone has already figured it out but if not it comes out in the next part omg


	5. part five

**A/N -** _Thanks so much for reading/reviewing/following/favoriting._

* * *

 **PART FIVE.**

 **XIII.**

After the first meeting with Grindelwald's former head of security, Voldemort and Hermione decided to stay at another hotel. They would be in Berlin for a little over week as they continued to meet with the strange man, and whoever else he could round up from them to meet, and she'd told him that if he intended to drink himself into a stupor while they were there, he needed to provide a large and comfortable bed for her to get optimal rest on.

"Penthouse," he told her, dropping a key into her palm as he sat down across from her in the lobby.

"Do you plan on dying this go round, Mr. Riddle?" She half teased, watching, as he got too comfortable. His eyes were half lidded, cheeks slightly flushed, which made her think he'd already started drinking.

"Maybe," he told her, his voice barely making it over to her.

She swallowed, standing. "Well, I'd like a bath and nap before it happens. So," she motioned for him to get up as well.

As he came to stand before her, she asked, "Why do you drink so much?"

"Do I drink a lot?" He asked, as though he really didn't know.

She gave him a flat look, to which he responded with a smile too handsome for her to really deal with. He offered her his hand as they walked over to the elevator. Despite her better judgment, she took it. He laced his fingers through hers. The locket hummed peacefully. Blissfully, even. Magic seemed to twist and turn and spark against her palm. He didn't give any indication that he noticed.

She ignored it.

 **XIV.**

"I'll be back in just a moment," Voldemort murmured, getting up and walking away from the table.

Hermione glanced at Raginmund, smiling softly as he sat back down. He cut into his steak again, blood seeping from it disturbingly, and patted the soft meat into the liquid before eating it. She picked at her salad as they sat in easy silence, her eyes moving around the room to see where Voldemort had gone.

"Zimmerman is an interesting man," she remarked when she got tired of him just staring at her.

"Yes. He is my partner."

Her brows rose in surprise, curious as to why he'd only just brought him around. They'd leave in just two days. "You're both vampires, then."

"Of course."

She nodded slowly. "You're going to throw all of this up later?"

He grinned, "Yes."

"Did Grindelwald make you all become them?"

"No. Leo was attacked during a meeting, when Grindelwald was attempting to form an alliance. A werewolf attacked me years later, leaving me to die, and he took it upon himself to change me. We'd grown up together. We'd always…I'm grateful. I wouldn't want him to exist alone forever."

Again, she nodded slowly. Raginmund was at least thirty years older than Zimmerman, who appeared to be in his early forties; she never would have guessed that they'd grown up together. Though, she supposed that 'years laters' could very well mean decades.

"Do you feel bad for what you did with his regime?"

"Why should I?" He asked, genuinely curiously. With his secret out, he stopped eating the steak. "I wouldn't be here, speaking with you, if I'd done anything differently."

"That couldn't possibly be a bad thing," she told him quickly. "You could have used all of that energy to do something good and important. You could have saved all the people you imprisoned. You could have joined the Order-"

He barked a laughed, rubbing his face humored. "Merlin. He was right. You are in so much denial, Miss Granger."

" _Excuse_ me?" She asked, affronted. "Just because you and Riddle are delusional enough to believe in fate and that things are what they're supposed to be, doesn't mean I have to hold those beliefs. And, honestly, they're disturbing. There is no way in the world _any_ of this was _supposed_ to happen. It all just did. And we have to deal with it."

"Ok. Even with your way of thinking, what reason would I have to dwell on my past? To regret? I must only deal with my actions."

"That's why you're helping us, then?"

He seemed confused. "I will admit that I was originally curious as to what he planned to do, and how you would react, given your reputation with the Order. Though, I have to say that over the course of this week it seems that you all work together more than you work against each other."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't fight each other. You don't hate each other-"

" _Well_ ," Hermione laughed breathily. "That's definitely subjective."

The smile he offered her said nothing. It read blank and dark and laid heavily on her.

"And, anyway, our situation leaves little room for us to constantly be at each others throats."

He flashed a grin, fangs too obvious. Hermione blushed.

"What's it like?" He asked, pouring her another glass of wine.

"Being with Riddle? He's alright. A bit of a drunk. Friendlier than I expected."

Raginmund gave her an odd look. "Is it so odd, given the situation?"

Hermione hummed. "I suppose not," she lifted her glass in thanks before tasting the ice wine.

"That isn't really what I meant though," he told her, glancing over at where Voldemort stood talking with Zimmerman by the bar.

"Oh!" She laughed, realizing she was a little drunk. "You mean about the Britain thing?"

He gave her another odd look, but she didn't catch it. She pushed her curls off her shoulders and said, "We're trying, you know? I'd love to return, to prove to them that neither of us is _that_ bad –not that I've done anything wrong, because I _haven't_ -, but we aren't really in a place to do that just yet. I think we're going to Geneva next-"

"You all plan in advance?"

"Why wouldn't we?"

He frowned. "You're on the run, Miss Granger. If they caught wind of where you're going next-"

"Raginmund. We aren't on the _run_. What would make you think that?" She felt confused and overwhelmed and hot with the feeling that he was right, but she wasn't sure how or why.

His eyes widened. "What do you think you're doing? Travelling for fun?"

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, attempting to gather her thoughts. "May I ask what reason he gave you to meet with us?"

"I couldn't deny you," he told her, glancing over at Voldemort again. "I wouldn't be opposed to meeting you around 11, for a drink. I don't believe we've enough time now, if you intend to keep this from him."

She nodded. "11:15, here at the bar." He agreed. "Raginmund," she looked over to see that Voldemort was laughing chummily with Zimmerman as they made their way back over, "why couldn't you deny me?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Voldemort and Zimmerman came back over, and Raginmund again stood. Both and his partner remained standing until Voldemort sat down.

Hermione felt sick to her stomach suddenly, pushing her wine away from her. He drew one arm over the back of her chair, smiling at her as he reached for her glass and finished it.

As she looked over at him he asked, "Ready to get going, love?"

 _He's a liar_ , she thought, hating herself for it. Because she'd trusted him. Without reason or question; knowing that she shouldn't have.

"It was nice meeting you, Zimmerman. Raginmund," she nodded, allowing Voldemort to help her out of the chair. She ignored the way they stood again.

When they were far enough from the table, she lifted her chin to his ear. With his arm drawn over her shoulder, it looked more intimate than it was.

"We need to talk," she told him.

He turned to her too quickly. Their lips brushed and he stopped, pressing his lightly over hers. It was more intimate than it should have been, but also too calculated and controlled. As if to make the action more familiar, he kissed her temple as they left the restaurant, thumb brushing the curve of her neck.

"Yes, we do."

 **XV.**

"Thought you'd be late," Raginmund smiled as Hermione walked into the restaurant.

"He went out, so," she allowed him to help her out of her coat and check it in.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Leo did say he'd asked about one of his old contacts." His hand pressed gently into the small of her back as he guided her to a back corner. "He's here, by the way. He thinks the world of you already. Said something about believing you're heaven sent."

She laughed tiredly. "He isn't the only one."

Zimmerman stood up from the booth when they neared the table, smiling brightly at Hermione before kissing her hand and gesturing for her to slide in to the side he'd been sitting on. As he sat back down next to her, Raginmund took the seat across from them.

"The kitchen closed stopped serving dinner at 11. I ordered you another salad; it'll be much better than the one you didn't eat earlier," he smiled at her.

"Thanks, Zimmerman."

"Please, call me Leo. Or Zim."

She nodded nervously. This was the first time she'd met with anyone without Voldemort's knowledge. It was also the first time she'd done anything for herself in a long time. The salad arrived and she proceeded to pick at it until the wine was poured.

"What did you mean earlier?"

Raginmund grinned. "Eat first. You look as though you haven't had even a scrap of food in months."

"You know that isn't true. I'm loathe to admit it, but he takes very good care of me."

Raginmund nodded slowly.

"How often does he do magic?" Zimmerman asked as she took a few bites of her food.

"Definitely not unnecessarily," she told them after considering it. "Mostly to move around."

"And how do you feel? When he does it? Do you feel sick or tired or drained?"

She turned her wine around on the table, watching the red liquid stain the glass. Voldemort never drank red, and she didn't really have a taste for it. But, it matched whatever her companions were drinking in the dark of the restaurant.

She hadn't realized she was touching the locket until Raginmund asked, "How long have you been wearing that?"

He sounded worried and disgusted and unnervingly alarmed. But, his eyes expressed wonder and awe, as though he knew what it was or had been.

"A while," she murmured.

Instead of saying anything, he slid a folded paper across the table. She pulled it closer, ignoring the way they glanced at each other as she lifted one edge from the other. Her scream died in her throat as she watched herself smiling in small box, next to a picture of Voldemort –the old Voldemort, without a nose and hair and _god_ , she wondered to herself, _did he really look like that? Is that really the man I'm with every day?_ \- staring blankly and blinking slowly. 'WANTED' was written across the top of page, along with instruction not to engage, to contact authorities as quickly as possible.

She dry-heaved, balling the paper up in her fist as she attempted to get ahold of herself. "That's why we've been avoiding major Wizarding communities," she murmured. "He glamoured my face the last time we were in one."

"Yes," Zimmerman nodded, rubbing her back soothingly.

It was only then she realized she was shaking and crying. Her head felt heavy, and body felt as though it was finally ready to give up. "How did you all get this? How is anyone able to communicate with them?"

"What do you mean? The same way we've always communicated with Britain."

She met Raginmund's eyes. "They aren't on lockdown?"

"Why would they be? They know you all are out of the country."

It was only then that she remembered more of their earlier conversation, when he asked if they thought they were traveling for fun. "And they can do magic?" She asked quietly, rubbing her eyes.

Both Zimmerman and Raginmund looked at her as though they had no idea what she was talking about. She realized it was the same way everyone had looked her when she'd brought up Britain having no magic, and felt so disgusted that she lost her appetite.

"Yes, Miss Granger. They can do magic as well as they always could."

She felt stupid and alone and disrespected. She was angry with him, but mostly with herself for believing. Rubbing her tears from her eyes, she downed her wine and proceeded to quickly eat her salad, wanting to rid herself of the emptiness that suddenly swept over her.

Raginmund poured her another glass as Zimmerman tentatively said, "For what it is worth, Miss Granger, you've kept him quiet and sane as they've rebuilt their nation. You should be a hero, really- not that you weren't, already, for what you did with Harry Potter."

She sucked in a shaky breath again, briefly closing her eyes. No tears came as she thought of her old friend, her old life, and she was equally grateful and disturbed. "Please. Tell me…why do you all know him? _How_ do you know him? Has all of this week been a lie?"

"Not a lie, per se, Hermione. More of a dance around the truth. He is getting in touch with his old allies, showing his power and influence. You're…you're causing quite a stir. Honestly.

"Rag and I were keeping our hands clean of him this time, until the idea that you were with him became factual knowledge in our circles. We had to see if it was true. If you were under Imperius or here willingly-"

"I'm not here willingly. Not really. He lied to me. He told me we were working on bettering England, because they'd lost their magic and gone into an involuntary lockdown. _God_. I should have _known_. He was never on subject or task. He was always doing something else. Encouraging something stupid and Dark and not at all something Hermione Granger _should_ have been doing. And so many people…Merlin, so many people saw me. I dueled. I nearly killed. Because of him. _For_ him."

"If it is any consolation," Zimmerman started in a gentle tone, "I've spent the last week meeting with everyone we know you all have been in touch with through your travels. We all agree that he seems sane this time. We are more interested in regaining the positions we had in society to further this cause-"

"What cause though? I don't know anything about this? I've been with him for months and I didn't even know…I don't know what's going on."

"He told me that you had a plan to bring Wizarding Britain to it's full potential."

"That was when I thought they had no magic! I have no plan for _this_. I don't know why he would even believe, for a _moment_ ," Hermione took a deep, shuttering breath in. "I need to go. I must ask that you all not mention this conversation, or my situation, to anyone."

"He is so calm with you. He is better than the wizard we met all those years ago," Raginmund told her, moving to stand. Zimmerman hesitated, not getting up from their side of the booth, but moving closer to the edge in order to ease her obvious unease.

"We honestly have no doubt that it's you making him this way. Because you wear that locket, continuing to restore his soul and magic."

"His magic?" She looked from Raginmund to Zimmerman. "That's why you questioned me about how I feel. I don't understand. His magic is fine. He uses it, well, not really often, but grandly."

"At what cost?" Zimmerman asked.

She touched the necklace. Felt it reach out to her and-

"I'm sorry. I need to go. I need to get back to the hotel and I…please don't mention this to him? I can't…I will speak to him about this myself."

"Of course, my Lady."

"Don't you _dare_ ," she pointed her finger angrily at Raginmund as she passed him, her chest rising and falling quickly as she continued to become more and more flustered. After collecting her coat from the front, she all but ran back to their hotel.

 **XVI.**

Voldemort was leaving the bathroom when she walked into their bedroom, his dark curls heavy with moisture and clad only in boxers. He smiled when he saw her, grabbing two bottles of water from the dresser before crossing the room and passing one to her.

"I was afraid you'd abandoned me," he said in a strangely familiar tone. He was teasing her, obviously pleased with the outcome whatever meeting he'd attended.

"You're a filthy fucking liar, Riddle. You haven't changed at all."

He froze, shoulders tensing and eyes narrowing.

"I feel so disgraced, so disrespected. You made a fool out of me; and I _hate_ myself for being _surprised_ by this. Honestly, I just," she broke off with a silent sob, rubbing her face tiredly.

"What are you talking about, Hermione?"

She shoved the paper in her hand into his chest. "I know all about your little meetings and dealings. I know Britain has magic. I know you're still planning on controlling our former country, and whatever others.

"How _dare_ you, Riddle? How dare you fucking kidnap me and force me to plan this-this…this fucking heist. Did you honestly think you could hide this?"

He was reading the paper, his eyes smoothing over the words and contents easily. She understood that he was well aware of their situation. "I've been trying to tell you."

"You've been _trying_ to tell me?" She questioned bitterly. "I was a _hero_ , Riddle. I managed to get you to kill _all_ of your Death Eaters, leaving only your weakened and human self- such an _easy_ kill you would have been. And you let me believe…you took my future away from me."

"No," he told her. "That isn't what I've done at all."

Hermione watched as Voldemort vanished the paper and moved to sit down at the table. He motioned for her to join him and, Merlin forgive her, she did. She was so tired again; so exhausted and ready to give up that she felt herself softening to him before he even said anything.

"You would not have been free, Hermione. Do not delude yourself in such away. Do not forget that they left you unconscious in a room with who they believed to be Lord Voldemort."

"A magicless, shell of a manic Dark Wizard, Riddle. That's all you were. You're barely above that now- Don't look at me that way. I _know_. I _know_ , okay?"

"Why did you come back?"

There was no malice in his voice, only curiosity. She got the feeling, though, -the idea making her sick to her stomach, - that he already knew the answer to his question. And she was, once again, unsure of herself.

"I don't know."

He smirked, eyes glinting in a way that they hadn't in so long. She felt his fingers on her thigh, his touch hot through the woolen fabric of her pants, and closed her eyes for a moment. They'd had a similar conversation before, the night she'd blindly believed and left the Wizarding world with him. She felt ready to vomit.

"I hate you. I don't…you didn't have to lie to me."

"Didn't I?" He questioned, and he meant it. "You would have gotten yourself locked up. You would have allowed them to put stipulations on your magic. You would have been grateful for what they offered you, and continued like this until you drove yourself mad, Hermione. You left with me because you understood this. You saw the opportunity that a life with me offered, and you took it.

"I understand that whatever you learned tonight has hardened you against me. But you've also come back to me. You could have left. You could have dropped that locket in the garbage and returned to England, or gone _anywhere_ , yet you came back here. Back to me." He reached for her hand then, the action forcing her eyes to his.

"That night," she murmured, observing the imploring look in gaze. "Or day, I suppose. Before I passed out, I asked you if I was alive. And you said not really."

He blinked, licking his lips distractingly. Voldemort was oddly vulnerable before her. His exhaustion was written plain on his face. His bare chest rose and fell with every breath he took. His eyes shined darkly, honest and curious. She almost wanted to call him Tom. To see if it made a difference. But, he passed his thumb over the edge of her tattoo, and she choked on her words.

"You remember that?" His voice low and heavy, followed by a short laugh that smoothed over her as easily as it always did.

It struck her then that she _knew_ this man. The months they'd spent together, though still a lie just by virtue of the circumstance, had been real and relatively honest. She'd gotten to know him better than anyone ever had, probably. Every inch of his human face was familiar to her, from the tensing of his jaw to the twitch of his lips. Even the way he held his shoulders when confronted with different situations were easy for her to understand.

"Of course you do," he murmured, shaking his head. "Hermione, my dear, would you mind if we continued this in the morning? I am, unfortunately, very tired. I'm afraid I'm not worth much right now."

"No. If you go to sleep, I'm leaving. I'm going to turn myself in."

He hissed, bringing her hand to his face. She felt his tongue, quick and warm against her knuckles before he kissed her fingers. She jerked away from him.

"You will be a fool to do so. They'll only lock you away."

"Maybe I deserve it. Maybe I deserve it for believing you, for staying with you, for coming _back_ to you after learning how little my presence means to you."

"How little?" He asked, obviously shocked. "I've never hesitated to admit what you mean to me. You are responsible for my peace of mind, for my sane state in this world. Without you, I am nothing but a monster, as you put it Al' Ayn."

"You remember that night?"

He frowned at her, as if to ask: _how could I forget?_ He never asked the question aloud, though. Instead, he told her, "Without you, I'll bring this world to ruin. You will have to do all of this over again. Do you really want that, Hermione? Wouldn't you rather enjoy a world you inspired?"

"How can I trust you? How can I believe you when I know that you've only lied? That you've kidnapped me from my friends and family for what? To allow you sanity? They'd better lock you up!"

"You know I'd never allow that."

She recognized the darkness in his tone. It upset her.

"And how would you plan to evade them, Riddle? You have no magic. You have nothing without me."

"I have nothing without you?" His tone confused her, and she tensed as he leaned forward to touch the locket. "Can't you feel it, love? Or are you numb to it? To _us_?"

"What are you talking about, Riddle?"

"From the moment the Dark Lord threw that Unforgivable at you, our lives grew more intertwined, more dependent on each other, than either of us really realized."

She leaned back in her chair, making sure he couldn't touch the locket again. "Please stop referring to yourself that way."

He scowled. "Weasley only damaged the horcrux. If you hadn't kept it so fondly, I'm sure I would have died long ago, but it _meant_ something to you, Hermione. Both while it was conscious and unconscious, and that connection allowed for me to leech life and magic off of you. It kept you protected when he attempted to kill you, and allowed _me_ the opportunity to return in this form. Not without cost to you, of course.

"When I told you weren't really alive, I meant it. Part of you is trapped in the locket-"

"Oh _please_." She jumped up, laughing at his theory. "Don't you dare, Riddle. I didn't make a horcrux when _you_ tried to kill me. There is no _possible_ way for that to happen."

"Not a horcrux, per se, and because of that, you haven't been able to completely rid yourself of the fondness you feel for me."

"So what, the part of me that _liked_ wearing the horcrux is half trapped in there, with left over bits of your already incredibly fractured soul? Do you realize how insane that sounds? Do you understand that you're only making yourself seem _crazier_?"

She ignored Zimmerman's voice in the back of her mind, continuously asking: _at what cost?_ Voldemort had just all but confirmed it, and it was too much for her to bear too soon.

"Energy can not be destroyed, Hermione."

She jerked. "It can be transferred, though. If you are truly what was left in the locket, there is no more of your horcrux left in it."

"Surely you feel it still taking from you? You say it often enough. You're constantly exhausted. You aren't a stupid witch, love." He seemed as though he wanted to say something more, something that would have broken her no doubt, but he shook his head at the last moment.

"I am not _exactly_ dead. You aren't _really_ alive. And, I'm afraid that's it. For the rest of our existence, we depend on each other."

"And if we kill the horcrux? If we kill it and drop it in the ocean?"

"It isn't a real horcrux anymore. I don't know what would happen if you took those measures. I can't guarantee your safety."

"But you can if I keep it?"

"Haven't I?"

She laughed, rubbing her face tiredly as she sat down on the foot on the bed. He eventually joined her, silence settling between them. At length, he drew his arm over her shoulders and rubbed her neck soothingly.

"That's one of the things I've been occupying my time with. I know that this isn't ideal for you."

"Is it for you, Riddle? Do you really feel comfortable being stuck with _me_ for the rest of your life?"

She felt his breath on her hair just before his lips brushed over her temple. It was something he'd done plenty of times before. "It definitely could have been worse, Hermione."

"Our souls are bound," she replied emptily.

His fingers stilled. "Is that so bad?"

She turned toward him, legs folding over his lap and pressing her face into his warmth. Hermione proceeded to weep into his neck, unable to describe what or how she was feeling. It didn't matter anyway.

Tom Riddle was all that she had.

 **XVII.**

"What is your end goal, Riddle?"

Hermione was sitting with her arms folded over each other on the tabletop, her chin resting on the crease of her elbow as she watched Voldemort flip through a Muggle religious text. He glanced at her, fingers pausing on the line he'd been reading.

"What's yours, Hermione?"

She scowled, lifting her head enough to replace her chin with her forehead, eyes refocusing on the gossip magazine resting on her thighs -she'd been half reading it over the last few days, as she'd partially given up on her frantic search for information on magical restoration; without the need to amuse her with false leads and ideas, Tom continued with whatever he was doing, incredibly focused and secretive in his tasks.

"I wish you'd stop fucking around with me," she told him, her voice slightly muffled from her position. "I'm still here. You've made sure I can't _go_ anywhere. I'd at least like to know what I've involuntarily signed up for."

"My objectives have changed," he told her, his tone surprisingly frank. "I still believe that Wizarding Britain needs to be improved upon, cleaned up a bit, but I'm willing to see what they do over the next ten years to better themselves in the wake of war."

She looked back up, resting her chin in the crease of her elbow again. "Ten years," she murmured. "I'm stuck doing _this_ for ten years, Riddle?"

"I thought you enjoyed research and learning, Hermione. I could have sworn you told me it was your passion."

She only stared at him, still trying to comprehend that idea of it just being the two of them for the foreseeable future.

"In those ten years, I hope that you'd join me in building a silent empire."

"A what?"

He smirked knowingly. "The only way to change a society is to provide incentive. By building a strong, successful brand around ourselves, they'll have no option but to notice. To drop the charge, even. We make the Wizarding communities around them stronger, no longer reliant on them; we become friendly with smaller scale magical communities and have them interested and in support of _us_ and-"

" _Tom_ ," Hermione breathed, her eyes wide and hands shaking. She sat up, hiding them under the table, but suspected he'd already noticed by the way the fire and excitement in his eyes slowly died. They sat just staring at each other for a few minutes, and while she wasn't sure what he was thinking about, she was suddenly more certain than ever that she'd lost control of the situation. That she'd never had any of the careful control she thought she'd gained –not over him or herself or _anything._

Licking her lips, she glanced around the Muggle library they were in before leaning into the table again, closer to him as she whispered, "What are you _talking_ about?"

He blinked. "I'm talking about us, Hermione."

She shook her head. "We're fugitives. All of Wizarding Europe knows it."

He made a motion with his hand as if he were flicking away the idea. As if it didn't matter. It startled her. "I'm taking care of that. Don't worry about it."

She sat back in her chair, continuing to watch him as she attempted to make sense of whoever he'd become. There wasn't a clear point in her memories where they'd become 'us,' or he'd become so docile, at least where she was concerned. She wasn't sure where the fearful edge that usually pulsed within her, however dully, had gone, or when it had, for that matter. But, she was suddenly just sitting in a public library with a wizard who was a few steps away from wrecking a second, slow havoc over a country –over a _continent_ , she corrected herself mentally- that simply wasn't prepared. They more than likely wouldn't even see it coming.

There was something spreading through her, something she'd felt ghosting over her mind and chest for months- no. She'd felt it before that, when she'd started wearing the locket. It was something she'd been familiar with before, as well, regardless of how academic her understanding of it had been before.

The feeling –the _heaviness_ \- seemed to stretch over her limbs and conscious in a slow, protective caress, replacing the exhaustion and vanishing the resentment that had been building since they'd left Germany. She was worried, but not in the way she'd been before- not in the way she should have been.

"I want to be friends, Hermione, which isn't something I've ever desired before. More, if," he seemed to fight with himself, and it was _endearing_. Beautifully and disgustingly endearing. "If you're interested," he continued, watching her carefully. "I would appreciate if you were able to stop seeing me as the wizard that I was, and instead as the one you're"-he coughed- "the one I'm trying to become.

"I wasn't trying to fool you. That wasn't what I set out to do."

 _It's a trap_ , she told herself, tucking her hands under her thighs. She looked away from him for a moment, considering her options. She wasn't exactly sure, but she knew that she could at least _try_ to kill him. He trusted her – _Merlin, he trusts_ me-, which meant that she was the only person even close enough to him to try and kill him.

"Raginmund called me 'my Lady' the other day. When you weren't around. I don't think he even realized it."

His presence was suddenly so strong and solid around her that she felt as though he was crushing her. He _liked_ the idea. She wondered if he'd set it all up.

It was all so _heavy_. Her hands balled to fists.

"I don't want that. It's disgusting. I'm Hermione. I'm…your companion, I guess. I don't know if I'm able to be more than that, Tom, but for the sake of both our sanity, I will _try_ to be your friend. But I'm not…they can't call me that. I don't want anything to do with whatever two-point-oh group you're building.

"I don't like the wall I'm suddenly pressed against, being forced into this role that I know nothing about. It's," she couldn't think of any other word. "It isn't what I want. It's disgusting."

He nodded slowly, his eyes still careful in their observation. "We both want the world, my angel. Why not have it together? You and I. Or," he hesitated smartly, "did I make a mistake, Hermione? Did you not want any of this?"

"I didn't," she told him. It wasn't true, but it wasn't a lie either. "I wanted an honest life."

He frowned thoughtfully. It was so genuine and so fake and so forceful against her. The earlier feeling continued to spread, continue to slip over her comfortingly.

"The ends justify the means."

"But what _is_ the end goal, Tom? What do you _want_?"

"You."

She cringed, her heart stopping and skipping before pounding painfully within her chest. She pushed her hair away from her face angrily before clasping her hands, fingers working painfully against each other.

He smiled so indulgently that she couldn't stop herself from sitting up in her chair, closer to him. He rubbed his lip distractingly. "We _both_ want power and control. We both want the world, love."

She wished he would stop saying that. It was an intrusive overstatement. It left so much hanging on. He was right, of course; they did both want the world, but in such different ways.

"And the ends justify the means," she clarified, eyes wide and imploring. It was something she understood, even if it wasn't a declaration she'd ever made. She'd dabbled and used and fought dirty in the past. But, it'd been for all the right reasons. It'd been for all the right people; people that cared about her, and that she would have died for.

The same people that had left her unconscious in a room with Lord _fucking_ Voldemort. The wizard she was bonded to.

The locket smarted. Her heart _ached_. Azkaban seemed so inviting suddenly. She could _do_ prison. At least there she knew what to expect.

"Tom," she started, her teeth tugging her bottom lip into her mouth for a moment as she thought.

"It could be so easy. It would be yours."

She sighed tiredly.

Riddle seemed to know he hadn't won. He reached across the table, fingers outstretched for her hand. She laced hers with his without even thinking about it, on the edge of her seat in order to really reach him. They sat like that for a moment, and it was as though they were the only two people in the entire world. It was dangerous and horrifying and as quickly as fear filled her to the brim, it all disappeared. She was again comforted by that blanket of heaviness, and instantly realized what it was.

It was _him_.

It was the _world._

"Hermione," he murmured. "At least let me get it for you."

* * *

 **A/N -** _I may have said that XII was my fav but this is actually my favorite part because of what it means for the both of them. Oh man...hopefully you all enjoyed it! See you soon._


	6. part six

**A/N -** _Thanks so much for reading/reviewing/following/favoriting! We are so close to the end now. It makes me nervous for some reason._

* * *

 **PART SIX.**

 **XVIII.**

"We need a plan," she told him, fingers sliding over his palm.

He wrapped his hand around her wrist, eyes heavy on her. "A plan for what, love?"

She ignored the question. "At first I thought that we should die. We've been under the radar enough that we could survive the next few years working to achieve your goals under the radar."

A soft smile interrupted her speech, his skin beginning to heat up against hers. Slowly, she met his gaze, her eyes seeming darker than normal in the dim pub lighting.

They were back in Germany, relaxing in a small town near the Swiss border, as he did absolutely _nothing_ but drink and sit around the hotel, attempting to soften her toward him with gentle words and touches and intelligence. Hermione had begun to feel anxious over the last few weeks, and in attempt to distract herself from his advances, went back to researching in her free time –which was nearly every second of the day, considering-, looking into Muggle and Magical rebels and over throwers.

The idea of having the world gave her a renewed sense of purpose, even if it wasn't exactly what she wanted (and she knew, of course, that Riddle wasn't what he was making himself out to be, either. They'd already been over the fact that what one wanted was vastly different than the other, but he was completely sure of two things: 1) that their differences didn't matter in the slightest, and 2) that he was indebted to her, which he claimed ensured his loyalty to her, and his confidence in that was at least slightly swaying. It wasn't something she kept much faith in, but it worked for right now).

"Then I considered Polyjuice; but that would be too tedious, and I don't really care to be anyone else for an indefinite amount of time.

"I think just being ourselves, perhaps making it obvious that we don't absolutely hate each other, would work in clearing our names. We'll need to find a country that will grant us asylum, thus pardoning us, but we need a reason for them to do it. We both have considerable financial means, and while I'm not certain of yours, I am still privy to a percentage of my parent's clinics. They essentially pay me rent, as well as a few other things, so I've a steady income at the moment, on top of everything else. It's just a matter of no one realizing that and cutting me off. Therefore, I think a couple of really compelling anonymous donations would be helpful, all toward rebuilding Britain that can be traced to our accounts. The fact that I _am_ Hermione Granger and I _was_ Harry Potter's best friend may help us here.  
"For what it's worth, our Ministry wasn't that greatly respected toward the end of the war, and it's likely they aren't viewed incredibly well right now. It could play in our favor if we both behave. Also, all the wizards and witches we've met with over the last few months can vouch for us. We haven't been doing anything wrong, per se, aside from evading arrest.

"Anyway, after the pardon, we need to contribute to the society we're apart of, while continuing to donate to Britain. We can use both anonymous and identified donations to help us seem attractive- and there is plenty to help with in the wake of y- of Voldemort's war.  
"The Ministry will not trust us, but they'd be hard-pressed to not accept money. Though, I don't really care to donate to them. As I said, there are plenty of other causes to support in the rebuild. One of your contacts still within the country can help with that."

"Yes."

She hadn't been expecting him to reply, and the sound of his voice brought her out of herself for a moment. At some point, he'd laced their fingers together, pressing her hand between the both of his. It felt oddly soothing and reassuring, and she did her best to ignore the way he was watching her. The hunger in his gaze caused her bones to itch.

"I will find someone to handle the donations and to act as our eyes in England- I'd been looking into that, anyway. I will also ensure that no one is able to cut off your income. I wish you'd mentioned that earlier, though."

She licked her lips, glancing around the pub before looking down at their hands. "Ideally, we need about seven to ten years, but I don't fancy waiting that long. So, while Britain is forced to accept our help, we need to be out here. With people, physically working. Perhaps with those who are still hurting from Grindelwald; I remember one of the people Raginmund introducing us to saying that there is a considerable amount.

"At this point, we could definitely introduce your idea of connecting with other Magical creatures. That would be a _great_ help, especially if we involve ourselves with them so positively-"

"Hermione," he cut in. "Are you going to leave me?"

She tensed. "What would make you think that?"

"You've been trying to leave me since we came together." His eyes darkened as he leaned toward her, "You've thought too much about something you don't care about. You've provided just enough to distract me, to make me think that you've invested yourself in this. And I'm loath to admit that it's working. I'm…proud of you, if you aren't _lying_ to me, but I can't help but feel that you are.

"So, I will ask you again: Hermione, are you going to leave me?"

She honestly hadn't considered it. "What do you see?"

He shook his head. "I don't want to go into your head."

It sounded a lot like _I want to trust you_ , and Hermione wasn't sure how to feel about it.

"You were right, Riddle. I want the world."

He shook his head, disbelieving, his presence suddenly deadly. The entire universe seemed to quiet around them.

"I will be your friend, Riddle. I will be here when you need me. But, should the opportunity present itself, and I see myself being able to live a normal life with a husband and kids and family dinners that have nothing to do with _this_ –that my hands won't tarnish with the world I would have created with you- then yes. I'm going to leave you. But, as I said, I'll be here when you need me."

"I always need you."

She laughed, gently pulling her hand out of his. "Don't be silly, Riddle. You don't always need me. You will create another horcrux. You will find another way to live forever. You will have everything you've ever wanted. You won't always need me."

"Hermione," he said, and that was _it_.

She realized that he wasn't lying. That he wasn't exactly the sneak she'd made him out to be. And he was right to question her, to be weary of her sudden investment in him and his interests. She was a threat, even if it wasn't clear exactly what kind she was.

And _god_ if that wasn't telling.

 **XIX.**

"Riddle?"

He didn't respond; at least, not verbally. He turned over, onto his side, in the darkness. She felt his eyes on her pensively, and she continued to twist a curl around her finger as she pointedly studied the ceiling, her free hand rubbing against the locket at her chest.

"This isn't healthy."

He didn't say anything for a long time, but, at length, he reached over and pulled her hand away from the locket, wrapping his fingers around hers before bringing them closer to his side of the bed. She rolled over onto her side as well, eyes meeting his.

"It isn't right, either. I think time a part would do us some good."

He brought their joined hands to his mouth, his lips soft against her knuckles. "I remember being horrified when that boy attempted to destroy me," he told her quietly. "I'd never known such fear or pain, Hermione. It was the worst thing that had ever happened, and I never would have imagined anything like it.

"I knew I was dying, in the same way I know you're here with me right now, and it'd been horrible. I was alone, save for the presence of that _dreadful_ boy-"

"Ron is a good man, Riddle."

He chuckled, "I was talking about Harry, actually, and don't you dare defend him. He was all too ready to ruin your life last May." He kissed her knuckles again. "I remember begging for something I couldn't put words to, and then suddenly there was this warmth. This _light_ that I almost couldn't handle, and it was around me every waking moment.

"After the first few weeks I realized that I knew it. That it'd been there for some time. It was the best feeling I'd ever known, which was both disgusting and reassuring for obvious reasons, and when I finally recognized that gentle desire and darkness I'd been noticing for awhile, I realized it was what I'd been begging for when I thought it was all over."

"You're so _crazy_ ," she told him, smiling when he laughed. "Always at night, too. It's like you can't control it anymore."

"It was this soothing, quiet, calm. It was so _different_ from anything I'd ever known and I'd gotten used to it, Hermione, so much so that I couldn't imagine existence without it. Hogwarts had been the closest place to a home I'd ever had, but this place, this _experience_ was that for me. And all too suddenly it was being _threatened_."

His gaze grew heavy on her, imploring her to understand, "So I did what I had to do to ensure the safety of the feeling, and I will continue to do whatever I have to do to ensure it."

She closed her eyes.

"I'll kill you before I ever let you go, Hermione. And the last thing I'd ever want to do is kill you."

 **XX.**

Hermione stood leaning on the barn door, watching Tom and Raginmund trot around the nearby garden, on the property's horses, with a few other wizards. They were in Calais, the closest they'd been to England in some time, while Tom met with old friends and she sat around the property with Zimmerman. It was relaxing in a way nothing had been in a long time, and for as much as she knew she should have enjoyed the freedom she suddenly had –Tom was in his element, after all, easily swaying people toward him with his handsome face and charming aura-, the witch couldn't help but feel as though she was suddenly _stuck_.

Truthfully, she hadn't thought about leaving until he'd brought it up. She'd accepted that they were doomed to a life together, or at least close to each other. She'd come to terms with it –as much as she could, at least, considering that she was very barely past the fact that he was Voldemort (even if he claimed he wasn't).

And now that he'd put the idea in her head, she was damned either way. She would lose herself either way. It was, honestly, the worst thing that had ever happened to her, and she again found herself wishing she'd had the opportunity to just be a _normal_ teenaged witch.

"Miss Granger," Zimmerman started, his fingers smoothing over her arm. She looked over at him, pulling the scarf she was wearing away from her neck. It wasn't cold out, but she was getting over a cold and Tom had insisted that if she wouldn't wear a cloak over her robes, she at least needed a woolen scarf.

He grinned, eyeing the offending abject as she attempted to tug it off. "Would you like to go back inside?"

She took hold of his elbow and allowed him to lead the way, silently considering how easy it would be for her to continue straight for the Floo once they'd gotten inside. They were _so_ close to England now. She was sure she could make it to the Weasley's in one piece.

"I want to leave," she told him, voice barely above a whisper as they sat in the Breakfast Room. An elf popped in with tea, her big eyes observing Hermione curiously as she thanked her.

Once she left, Zimmerman lifted a green pot and poured for her. As he lifted the other pot, Hermione ignored the fact that he appeared the fact that he was drinking _steaming_ blood, choosing to look out the window instead. "Why don't you?"

She rubbed her face tiredly, pushing her curls away and sipping her tea as Zimmerman mumbled something about needing some salt. They sat in shared silence, and she offhandedly realized that spending time with a Vampire was like spending time with no one once they'd gotten comfortable with you. When her eyes weren't on him, it was as though he wasn't even there as he relaxed more and more into his chair.

"He told me he'd kill me if I left-"

"He won't."

She didn't really think he would, either. "Did you know that I was in here too, Zim?" She touched the locket fondly, watching him carefully.

"No. Not really. Perhaps if you hadn't been wearing it I would have noticed. I should have guessed though. It takes too much from you to not know you."

"It's so odd to me, to talk about an object as a sentient thing. I know everything is possible with magic, I just…my brain is still trying to make sense of it." She shook her head, sipping her tea again. "He kissed me, too."

Zimmerman's eyes widened in a way a good friend's would, and for a second she struggled to remember that he wasn't. "After he told you he'd kill you?"

"No. It wasn't…he kissed the corner of my mouth, just before we met up with you all last week. I've been trying to scrub off the feeling since."

He picked at something nonexistent on his sleeve. "He is very attached to you, Miss Granger. And, if you are also in that locket, I am not certain that you _could_ leave him. It could be bad for your health, and his as well."

"He says he's working on that."

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" She asked quickly, frowning. "I just…I hadn't been _planning_ on leaving him. Not anymore. He put this idea in my head and I just haven't been able to get it out. Maybe I'm _supposed_ to leave. Maybe we aren't supposed to get through this. It…it could be very dangerous. I don't have any control over him."

"On the contrary, I'd say you have him in the palm of your hand."

She squinted, attempting to see it. Sure, he claimed to be indebted to her, but she didn't see him altering his plans just because she didn't like them. He was still hell-bent on taking over England, on have the entire _world_ dependent on him. She wasn't sure that she could talk him down from that, or the immortality that would have to come with it.

Hermione was partially certain that she could, perhaps, convince him that he didn't need to be the _face_ of power to hold absolute authority, but she doubted he would trust anyone he didn't groom himself for the job. There was also a possibility, even if it was slim to none, that she could talk him down from the _entire_ world, because she didn't care much to have to be involved with over a billion people. A couple million wizards she was sure she could help manage, though.

"If that is the case, I have no control over myself. It was different with Harry and Ron, they were so _good_ , and I didn't have any other option but to do the right thing. Now, though…I've started thinking like him. 'Right,' is so relative."

He considered her words, his head tilting toward the door as though he was also listening to another conversation. After a few minutes, he said, "They're coming in for lunch."

He met her eyes then, hard and fierce as he leaned toward her. "He hasn't asked anyone to swear loyalty. He is vain enough to expect it, but this time around he seems to be sane. Quieter. More in control. I don't know exactly how to describe it, but it is everything he wasn't before. We told you that months ago.

"When he talks, you can tell that he's interested in this for himself, but he is also interested in your confidence, Granger. He wouldn't be if he didn't think anything of you. You wouldn't be _here_ if you didn't mean something to him. You have so much control; you just need to see it. To understand it."

She finished her tea. "He isn't sane. He has these moments of…he loses touch. Not because he's drunk, though I will admit that when he's resisting a drink or coming off a bender, of sorts, he is more likely to not be all here with me. He…Merlin, Zim."

"If _you_ don't feel sane, Hermione; if you feel as though too much is being taken from you and you aren't getting enough in return, you have to choices: tell him, and hope that he listens. Or leave, and end this all. Know that I support you, though. It may not mean much, because I'm as good as a Death Eater, honestly, but it's important for me that you know that. We all think you're this… _other_ sort of being.

"There is no reason for him to be so into _you_. Forgive me, but you're Muggleborn. You're…he did try to kill you, didn't he?" As she nodded, he said, "There you have it, then. But, you're still here. He kisses your hands. Knows how you take your tea. And I can guarantee it isn't because he _wants_ or _needs_ something from you.

"There are so many other ways this could have gone, and _this_ is the way it's happened. He talks of you as his better half. His 'angel,' he called you the other night, when he was _pissed_ out of his mind, and I believe it."

"Please stop talking," she requested. "I am not myself. I don't know who I am. I…I'm not an angel. I don't know why he says that. I'm a _wanted_ witch. I have to answer for that."

He sighed, relaxing into his chair. "If you want to leave, if you have to prove something to yourself…the Floo in Wine Cellar works internationally."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

"He won't kill you. He will come after you, though, and I'm sure you know things won't be the same once he has you again."

* * *

 **A/N -** _L O L_

 _Random but after this I think I'm going to take a break from Tomione and work on rare pairs bc I always want to read them and there just aren't enough so a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do_


	7. part seven

**A/N -** Sorry for the wait. I was on vacation and took a break from writing/editing/etc. When I got back I scraped the original ending and today I wrote this. It's very sweet (albeit, open-ended) in comparison to the original. So, without further ado...

* * *

 **PART SEVEN.**

 **XXI.**

"Hermione?"

Standing just outside of the Weasley's property, she and Luna stood staring at each other, her own eyes wide and blank. She felt her heart pounding in her throat, the locket at her chest burning in warning. Around them, the night continued to exist, but between them it felt like everything had stopped.

Luna tilted her head. "You shouldn't be here."

"I," Hermione wasn't sure what to say. She'd gotten to this point on nerve alone and now that she was _here_ , nothing made sense. "I have come to answer for myself. I figured this was the best place to show up, considering…considering I owe them."

"Is this best?"

Hermione frowned, "Yes? I'm wanted. I…I have to answer for what I've done."

"You look good," Luna told her. "A bit gaunt, but, happy."

She suddenly got the feeling this was a mistake. "Maybe I should go."

"I would agree," Luna started, "but it's too late."

"Luna," she heard behind her. She recognized Ginny's voice easily. "Who are you-"

Hermione turned to face her, watching as Ginny took a step back, drawing her wand.

"Hermione has come to answer for herself, Gin," Luna announced. "She isn't a threat to us. Remember?"

Ginny was pregnant, Hermione realized, and it was such an odd thing to learn that she found herself questioning whether or not anything was real. In fact, even since she'd gotten out of bed with the intent to leave Tom, everything felt as though it had shifted out of place around her. She lifted a hand to wrap around her locket.

"How do you still _have_ that?" Ginny questioned, disgusted. Her wand was still pointing at Hermione. "It's sick. Take it off. Now."

"I can't," Hermione breathed, and it became true as she said it. She felt the clasp disappear, becoming an endless chain around her neck.

"I don't believe you. Take it off."

Hermione tried to pull it over her head, but it tightened around her neck, causing her to choke and gasp in surprise.

Ginny hissed angrily, and she heard Luna talking again, but it was as though her head had been submerged in water. She shook it in attempt at clarity, but it was pointless.

 _Tom_ , she wondered, and suddenly she was painfully aware of him. He was angry and upset and hurt in a way she hadn't anticipated. He was…looking for her, she realized, and wondered if he would show up here as well.

In all honesty, she doubted it. Zimmerman was wrong. He would let her die, as he'd promised; she was suddenly sure that was what England wanted, anyway. Her death, in exchange for what she'd done. What else would equal giving Voldemort another chance?

"Should I go to the Ministry?" She asked suddenly.

Ginny looked ready to kill her herself. She stalked closer, pressing her wand into her neck, her eyes focused on the locket. Before Hermione could say anything more, she said " _Stupefy_ ," and the world went black.

 **XXII.**

"But, she can't take the necklace off," Ginny sighed. "Luna and I saw that for ourselves."

"Should that mean something?" Hermione didn't recognize the woman's voice.

"Of course it means something," Ginny countered. "Without the necklace, she could be herself again."

"She shouldn't have put it on to begin with. And that _mark_."

"She may not have agreed to the mark," a male voice cut in, and Hermione's eyes popped open. She would have recognized Draco's voice anywhere. "So you can't hold that against her."

The air felt incredibly sober after his statement.

"She's been with him for a year!" Ron seethed, causing her to flinch, not a moment later. "I remember wearing the locket. I remember what it does to you. You don't lose yourself completely."

"Harry said she wore it for longer than you all did, though," Ginny recalled. "It will attach to someone it has something in common with."

"Well, there you have it," the unknown female voice said again. "Of course she joined him. They have similarities."

"He and I have similarities as well."

It was Harry, and he had so much tenderness and patience in his voice that Hermione had to press her hand to her mouth to keep her gasp inaudible. They sounded as though they were right outside of the door, and she wasn't ready for them to know she'd regained consciousness. "Should I join her in there?"

She sat up to find a magical shackle around her ankle. It was too dark to see much of anything, but a small sliver of light cut through overhead, showing her the small size of the room. Her back was against the wall, and there was barely three feet of space before her. They'd locked her in a closet.

She would have laughed if she hadn't felt so _hurt_.

"And, anyway, you left us, remember? It changed you so greatly that you _left_ us."

"So, what? You're forgiving her?"

"You didn't see her, in the Headmaster's Office. She was…different. Confused. And Voldemort was so _pleased_. It was as though he'd done something."

Hermione pressed her fingers to her eyes to keep herself from crying at the sound of Harry defending her against his best friend.

"Harry's right. I…I know what it's like to be consumed by a horcrux," Ginny said.

"But it isn't a horcrux anymore. Voldemort is alive. We all saw him. With her. Don't make this mistake," the unknown witch cut in.

"Pansy," Draco started, and Hermione wouldn't have believed this was happening if she wasn't there. "She's still wearing it, though. It can't come off. There is power there that I'm sure even he doesn't understand, considering he hasn't killed her yet. What use does he have for a Muggleborn?"

"She's an intelligent witch. She _knew_ what she was doing. You all can't just accept this stupid 'I was under the Dark Lord's spell' ploy."

"To be fair, she never said that," Luna said.

Ron huffed. "Love, please."

"And, anyway, of _course_ he'll use a Muggleborn. What greater front?" Pansy continued angrily.

The sound of the door opening filled her ears. "Well?" It was Molly. "Where is she?"

"In the cupboard, there," Pansy said. "Ginny stupefied her."

"Did she say anything?" Kingsley asked.

"Just that she wanted to answer for herself."

"Do you think Voldemort will come after her?"

"You never know," Draco told them. "If she means as much to him as the rumors make it out to be."

"The rumors make them out to be harmless."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, right."

"The locket can't come off," Luna said.

"The locket?" Molly questioned. "Slytherin's locket?"

"Yes," Ginny said.

"Shame she got mixed up in that," Molly murmured. "Well. What can we do?"

"I don't recommend putting her in Azkaban just yet. As Draco said, Voldemort may come after her. The opportunity to get them both is too good to pass up," Kingsley said.

"Azkaban is the safest place for her- for _us_ ," Pansy said surely.

"He's broken people out before, though," Harry commented. "Though he doesn't have as many followers as before-"

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. We have intel that he has been meeting with old contacts," Kingsley said.

Ginny huffed. "Well, she is magically bound, and Ron, Luna, and I reinforced the protection spells on the house, so we will know if anyone attempts to gain access."

"The Minister is out of the country," Molly reminded him.

"I will send word. This is very important. He will return early."

"Well," Molly clapped cheerfully. "We'd have the pair. Look at that. Thank Merlin."

"We should celebrate," Ron suggested.

"Ron!" Luna sounded disturbed. "She's your best friend."

"And she might as well be Voldemort's wife, love. What do you want me to do?"

"I think a celebration could be nice," Ginny said. "Just…you know, _finally_ : something has happened. We're closer to being able to move _on_."

"Well, it's settled," Molly said with an air of finality. "Call your brothers."

 **XXIII.**

It was Draco who opened to cupboard door, much later, staring blankly at her. She remembered the moment she'd had with his mother, her mouth opening to say something – _anything_ -, but she really couldn't find the words.

"Is this a trap?"

"No."

He nodded once, as though he'd just needed some sort of confirmation, and Hermione tried again to tell him. As he began to close the door, she said, "Draco."

Their eyes met, his narrowed suspiciously.

"How are you here?"

"Pansy and Potter are…quite serious."

It was news if she'd ever heard any.

"And Ginny, with the whole Blaise thing," –Hermione's eyes widened- "They are all that I have, and they have accepted my presence."

Hermione nodded slowly before finally saying, "Your mother. She…she went looking for you, when everyone fell unconscious. I saw her because I was wearing the locket. It protects me.

"She was a great woman, Draco. Truly. She told me to run and I- I _tried_ , but I was caught and she…Narcissa Malfoy died protecting the Wizarding World. I just," she straightened up, folding her legs beneath her. "I wanted you to know that. Your mother is a hero."

At length, he asked, "What are you playing at?"

She frowned. "See for yourself," she gestured to his wand and her forehead. "I have no agenda. I am here because I have to answer for the pain I've caused."

"Why now? Why not last year? Why not stay and take responsibility?"

"I was scared. I was…he lied to me. He kept me in the dark and made me feel like what we were doing was important for Britain's future. Once I found out, I was able to think more clearly, and I made up my mind."

He stared at her.

"To come here."

After just a moment longer, she felt him in her head. She drew up the memory, releasing a shaky breath once it came to an end. She expected him to leave her mind after, relaxing slightly, but instead she felt him more firmly on her conscious, tearing through memories he had no business accessing. She tried to pull away from him, to force him out of her head, but he was stronger than she'd expected him to be.

There wasn't any one thing he was looking for. With him, she relieved waking up in the Headmaster's office; Tom calling her slightly above average; their travels and her duels and the first time he drunkenly climbed into bed with her. He watched her realize that she'd been lied to, and unease and uncertainty she'd lived with after. He-

He pulled out of her head, watching her with a curious expression on his face.

"He loves you," he quietly murmured.

She recoiled. "No. He needs me, so he tolerates me. And, even if he did 'love' me, I don't love him. There is too much bad blood between us. We could never be anything more than we are."

"You've spent so long with him, Granger. You've kept him sane and human and he's kept you alive. He didn't have to do that. He could have killed you in that parlor and taken your magic-"

"That's not possible."

He gave her a flat look, "I think we both know that everything is possible. I'm talking to you, in the Weasley Burrow, and _you're_ the one in bondage."

"He's Lord Voldemort. He is a vile and disgusting man."

"Ok. But, he could have killed you. He didn't. Why?"

"He needed me."

"He didn't. He didn't need you then. You're-He," Draco paused in obvious frustration. "He kisses your hands."

He was the second person to point that out.

He lifted his wand to her again, but this time, he freed her, breaking the magical shackle. "If you stay, they will kill you."

"You're-"

"You have kept him quiet. Keep him that way, and we won't have any problems."

"That's not fair," she told him. "I don't want that responsibility. I didn't ask for this."

He didn't appear to care. "Death or freedom," he told her before turning to leave.

She remembered the last time someone had tried to kill her- Voldemort, the day her life turned out to be forever damned-, the way the locket had protected her. The whole reason she and Tom were alive and in the _mess_ that had become her life.

"I want to die," she told him, and it was the truth. Because she didn't think she could anymore.

He froze, not turning to look at her, but his shoulders were tense beneath the black cashmere of his sweater.

"You don't know what it's like-"

"Don't I?" He turned back to her. "Don't I know, Granger, what it is like to have my life consumed by that monster? I have no family. I have nothing. I am not liked or trusted, and I fought _against_ him in the end. All it got me was out of Azkaban, but I am not free. Do not mistake this for freedom-"

She gasped. He'd told her- he'd _told_ her he wouldn't be free in England. Still, she asked, "Then why would you suggest this for me?"

He looked plainly at her, as though she were a child. She got out of the cupboard and stood before him, watching as he looked her over. "You will be fine. I know about you all. He needs you now. He did not need any of us. He _loves_ you."

"He cannot love. He doesn't know-"

"Don't be _stupid._ Don't be _blind._ "

She felt hyperaware. Covered in a layer of skin that wasn't her own. Someone was ripping every bit of sanity –of _reality_ \- from her and leaving her with-

"He loves you," he repeated, as though he found some sort of solace in it.

"I live in a world that revolves around him," she quietly admitted.

Hermione looked around the kitchen to see that nothing had changed. She wondered if this was real life, or if she'd already died and was now forced to live in this endless argument. Wrapping her arms around herself, she looked back at Draco and said, "I lose myself when I don't have his attention. I'm sure I've spent days staring at the wall while he went off to do whatever he wanted-"

"You're conscious now," he countered.

"By the grace of _god_ , Draco. I don't know if I'm dead or alive right now. This is the longest I've spent away from him _awake_. I don't know if it's been minutes or days-"

"It's barely been a few hours, Granger."

She shook her head, arms tightening. "I cannot explain it, this magic that has united us. But I _can't_ be rid of it without you all. Without _answering_ for myself."

After a brief pause, she said, "I will only find freedom in death," and it was only as the words left her mouth that she realized how _true_ they were. She closed her eyes for a moment, accepting it, and he was gone when she opened them.

As though he'd never been there at all.

Again, all that she had was Voldemort. Was _Tom_ , she reminded herself.

A short laugh escaped her.

She left out of the front door.

 **XXIV.**

Hermione was sitting just outside of the Weasley property when Tom found her the next morning.

The sun had just started to rise, bathing them in a warm, golden glow, and as he sat down beside her, leaning back on his elbow, she remembered the first time she'd met Voldemort, when everything in her life turned to- well, not _shit_ , but it would have been by anyone else standards. It was funny to her, how they'd managed to come full circle, especially when she considered the fact that she used to laugh at him for believing himself to be different from the wizard who tried to kill her a year ago.

It'd become so obvious to her as she'd sat Devon after she and Draco's conversation. Despite the way it'd started, she couldn't imagine what would have happened if she'd stayed behind in Dumbledore's office, but she was sure she wouldn't have become half the witch she was now if she had.

"What are you doing?" He asked her, a strange tinge of curiosity in his voice.

She considered lying before saying, "Counting my blessings."

"Oh," was all he said.

"I turned myself in."

She felt his surprise just before he said, "To the Weasley's? That's…excessive."

She turned to look at him, watching as he stared blankly at the Burrow.

His eyes slid slowly to her, oddly empty as he said, "They only want to cut your wings, Hermione."

"Perhaps that's what needs to happen."

"Don't be foolish." He looked away from her, back at the Burrow, lips pursed in thought.

"I know," she admitted, still observing him. When she realized just how handsome he was in the morning light, she looked away from him with a suppressed hiss. "Why are you here?"

"I came to rescue you," he told her, as though it was obvious. "Though, I suppose, I should have had more faith in you." He touched her hair, so lightly that if she hadn't been _waiting_ for him to touch her, she wouldn't have felt it. "If you turned yourself in, how are you sitting here?"

"Draco released me."

"Good boy," Tom commented, as though Draco releasing her was to be expected. "I did always like him more than his father. Lucius lost his way-"

"He loved his family. He realized you were raving and realized his mistake. It was all too late but…don't talk about things you don't understand."

"I don't understand love?" He questioned, as though it was surprising. Dismissively, he said, "Ok," and then, "Come home."

She blinked. "Raginmund and Zim's place isn't _home_ , Tom."

He tensed beside her, sitting up. He was closer to her now, his body pressed flush against hers, and he pressed his face into the curve of her neck as though he'd done it a thousand times before. "You've never called me Tom," he told her, lips moving against the curve of her throat.

Hermione laughed. She hesitated for just a moment before unwrapping an arm from around her legs and hooking it over his knee. His leg pressed more heavily against hers. "Really?"

He hummed, the sound vibrating his chest and her shoulder. "I told you I'd remember if you said my name."

She turned to look at him, felt his lips against her cheek and arm around her lower back. His hand settled on her hip. "What does that mean?"

"I'm perfectly distracted from how upset I am with you."

"Tom," she started, but he smiled, his eyes closed and face so _perfectly_ content that _she_ got distracted. For a moment she thought he was drunk, but he didn't smell like it.

"You planned this, didn't you?"

"No," she told him. "I didn't want to distract you or anything like that. I just…" She looked back at the Burrow. "I realized something. I changed my mind."

He put his chin on her shoulder, humming appreciatively.

She closed her eyes, tightening her hold on his knee. Tom smelt like soap and peppermint and warmth. He felt like- She swallowed, relaxing against him. "Did you miss me?"

"It's barely been a few hours."

"I feel like it's been a lifetime," she admitted, attempting to get closer to him. She felt him smile, felt the locket preen against her skin. "You felt angry with me," she touched the locket absently. "Earlier, I mean."

"I was. But, I didn't want to be. And you were here, instead of in there. You admitted it didn't feel like you thought it would." He tilted his face into her neck, inhaling.

"You're not going to ask why I came?"

"I know your heart, Hermione. I know your fears and dreams and desires. I acknowledge and accept them. I don't understand why you would leave home-"

"We don't _have_ a home, Tom. We've been living out of hotels for a year. Rag and Zim's place doesn't count. We're just…nomads, I guess, is a polite way to put it. And we aren't even 'we' most of the time."

He chuckled. Laid his forehead against her shoulder. "I thought it was the same for you."

"What?"

"You feel like home to me."

"Tom-"

She felt him exhale. Felt his relief and calm and content. Felt his other arm wrap around her stomach.

"Please don't do this again. I really don't want to kill you, Hermione." He rubbed her side familiarly.

"That isn't really inspiring," she grimaced.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Tom's hold on her warm and solid and oddly comforting. For whatever reason, being in his arms felt like the sun would never set and she wasn't sure when his touch had started to do that to her.

"I'm really tired," she told him.

"Are you really?" He asked, as though she truly couldn't be sure that she was tired.

For whatever reason, she hesitated.

"I did, by the way," he told her quietly. "I missed you terribly."

 **XXV.**

A few nights later, Hermione shook Tom awoke in the middle of the night, her fingers digging into his shoulders until he opened his eyes to her. If he was surprised to find her completely awake, straddling his lap in the dead of night, it didn't show. He lifted his hands to pry hers from his body, lacing their fingers in the darkness.

"Do you believe we can live forever?"

His brows rose, fingers flexing around hers.

"I don't think we can die. I have no theory or reasoning I just…I just don't think we can die."

"The locket recognizes you as a life source, as something to protect, made evident by the way it protected you in the Forbidden Forest, and by the way it would sooner drain me, it's reason for existence –it's heart, so to speak-, then you."

"If you're the heart then I'm blood."

He grinned at her. "Hermione, I do think that is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."

Despite herself, she laughed.

"Yes, though. If I am the heart, you're the blood. It needs the both of us to survive; therefore, it will ensure our survival."

She sat staring at him for a long time, enjoying the feel of his warmth and strength and the way the locket seemed to come alive at their physical closeness. The realization that she wanted to kiss him wasn't really a surprise, but it did fill her with a level of apprehension she hadn't anticipated.

Tom had expressed interest in her before, and she'd been incredibly uninterested in him at the time. He was just…someone that she was forced to exist around. She had to accept him in the same she had to accept that air was necessary for survival. She didn't necessarily need him to survive –she didn't think, at least; but, then again, she wasn't _really_ alive, and-

Hermione gasped, her hands gripping his. He tilted his head, observing her curiously, and the locket attempted to sooth her as she realized that she _did_ need him. That it _was_ mutual and necessary and they were dependent on each other.

After a moment, he kissed the back of her hand. "What are you thinking?"

Her brows rose, "You mean you don't go fishing through my mind anymore?"

He smiled. "I try to respect your wishes."

"Oh, is that right?" She pulled her hands from his and got off of him, laying back down on her side of the bed.

Tom rolled onto his stomach, closer to her, his arm hooking over her waist and pulling her flush against his side. "Is this okay?"

The uncertainty in his voice caused her stomach to flip.

He was sober and touching her and wondering if it was _okay_ and Hermione wasn't sure what had happened, but it _was_ okay.

"More then," she told him, feeling him smile against her shoulder.

"I can only hear your thoughts when you project them," he told her quietly. "For example, for the last few days, you've been anxious. Worried. You've needed me."

"Have I?"

He laughed shortly, rubbing her hip soothingly. "I'm very happy you didn't go through with it, Hermione."

Her eyes opened, fixing against the ceiling as her heart beat painfully in her chest. "I didn't know happiness was a thing you could feel."

He hummed thoughtfully. "I'm not heartless."

She felt her breath catch. "Wouldn't killing me kill you?"

"I have a theory that I'm _supposed_ to kill you. That if I refill that locket, I will have my life back, and I will be able to complete my goals without fear of you not approving."

"You fear me not approving of your actions?"

"No," he told her. "Fear was that wrong word. I believe it will prove to be a large set back if you aren't happy with me."

She sighed. "So, you would have killed me."

"No," he assured her quickly. His fingers now splayed over her hip, thumb rubbing circles against her skin. "I've decided that I will not kill you. However, I am not above ensuring that you cannot leave me. I wouldn't be happy about it, love, because I enjoy that we are both willing in this relationship, but should you decide there is something else you should be doing-"

Tom made a funny sound in the back of his throat, his words hanging in the air. "Don't make me crazy, angel," he requested.

Once his breath fanned evenly against her, slow and even as the night drew on, Hermione realized that she didn't want to make him crazy at all.

 **XXVI.**

"This is about the time you usually attempt to convince me that we are better on our own," Tom commented, watching as Zimmerman and Raginmund slow danced in the middle of a back-alley club in the Wizarding Germany.

Hermione leaned against the balcony railing, smiling as she also watched the couple. They were absolutely out of place, but neither seemed to notice as they enjoyed their time. Sipping her Fire Whiskey, she leaned into Tom's side and said, "I changed my mind."

He chuckled. "I'm glad."

"But, I have been thinking."

He turned to her, his dark eyes only half curious. At length, he offered her his hand –which she took without thought- and led her out of the club. As they began to walk down the alley, he said, "Let's not think."

She froze, looking up at him confusedly. "What are you talking about?"

"We both know what the other wants, above all- Don't argue me, Hermione. You wear a piece of my soul around your neck. You nourish it.

"I told you before that everything about you impacts me and it is important to me. You've trusted me this far, haven't you? Trust me enough in this, too. Let's not think about what goals we should be working toward or anything that impacts this."

"This," Hermione repeated, but she understood what he meant. For the last few weeks, since leaving Calais, they'd been –for lack of a better phrase- honeymooning. Everything between them had been perfect, and she'd found that when she forgot who he had been in her past, Tom was a perfectly interesting and incredibly handsome person. She enjoyed their time together and whatever it was that they were doing (because it wasn't exactly nothing. They met up with Raginmund and Zimmerman two days a week; they studied and networked and laid in bed together for hours longer than they should have, everything on the table between them. They hung out in Dark corners of the Wizarding world with witches and wizards she wouldn't have been caught dead with before...everything was- she would have said perfect if she hadn't _thought_ about it).

She was still exhausted. Incredibly so, as though she was carrying around her fatigue like stones. She'd thought it was the locket, and given it to Tom for a week, but it hadn't helped. In fact, there had been moments that she was sure it'd made things worse. But, it was something she was slowly learning to live with.

"And what should we do in the mean time?"

He smiled slowly, taking her face in his hands. Before she could really hope that he would kiss her, his mouth was slanting over hers, a contented tone of surprise escaping her. "Ok?" He breathed, mouth hovering over hers as he stroked her neck, fingers warm and firm.

"Yes," she hissed, and instantly he was back, his tongue stroking her bottom lip as she opened her mouth to him.

She hadn't realized that he was backing her against the wall until her heels hit it. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he stepped between her legs, his hands settling briefly on her hips. "This is stupid, Tom," she rasped despite herself, moaning at the feel of his tongue against her neck. "We can't-"

"Don't think," he reminded her, angling them so that he fit perfectly against her center, the feel of him causing her to whimper. Their mouths found each other again, his fingers slipping between them. "Tom," she breathed.

He hummed appreciatively, pushing her skirt over her hips. She gasped when his hand found her, his long fingers firm over her damp knickers.

"More."

He smiled against her neck, pressing the lace fabric to the side.

The locket distracted her, hot and overjoyed and there was so much magic, on and around them. Protectively. Instinctively. As though the entire universe just _knew_ far more than she did.

Two fingers sunk into her, his thumb rubbing circles against her clit. He swallowed her moans and cries of pleasure, and she felt him fighting a smile the entire time, her own hands slipping under her shirt to touch his bare skin before finding hair and his jaw and his belt.

"Tom," she hissed. " _Please_."

He grinned, pulling his fingers from her and lifting them to her mouth. He pulled them away from her as tongue darted out, pushing them into his mouth as they watched each other, her hips rolling against his needily as she undid his trousers. Once he was satisfied, he hooked his arm around her waist and lifted her off the ground, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him.

She wrapped her arms around his neck again, fingers smoothing through and tugging at his hair as he pulled himself from his pants, his other hand pressing her panties to the side. She opened her mouth for him, stroking his tongue with hers as he rolled his hips.

"I've dreamt this moment," he told her between kisses, rubbing the head of his cock over her clit torturously. "You've no idea how long, angel."

" _Please just,_ " she begged, pressing herself closer to him.

He smiled, his eyes dark as he pushed forward, stretching her slowly as she groaned, angling her hips as best she could as her head fell back against the wall. He nipped and sucked at her throat, his groan vibrating through her as he settled within her. "Tom," she breathed.

Tom took hold of her hips, his strokes long and measured as he watched her, taking in her half open mouth and the trembled of her shoulders every time he settled within her. She clenched him deliciously, hot and wet and she was so soft beneath him, fit so perfectly for and around him.

"Harder," she breathed.

His eyes seemed to darken further at her request. He pulled almost completely from her before he plunged back into her, hard and deep with every thrust. She gasped and whimpered, each little sound swallowed by him as he claimed her mouth as his own. Even her cries were taken by him, fingers digging into her as she met his thrusts, her back scraping against the wall.

" _Fuck_ , Tom."

"You're so fucking-" his words died in his mouth, jaw shaking, and Hermione felt herself tightening around him at the sight of him. "You feel so good, my love."

It was such a stupid thing to notice, as he was fucking her into an alley wall just outside of a club, but his skin was flushed, his eyes blown wide. His lips were red and swollen and she realized, belatedly, that it was all for her. Because of her.

She smiled at him, faltering when he shifted his hips. "Tom," she breathed, repeatedly, her hands pushing and pulling and legs gripping him closer as her nails dug into his neck.

He pressed her closer to him, his mouth gentle against hers as he said, "Come for me, love."

She whimpered when one of his hands lifted to her throat, squeezing and soothing as he licked and kissed her lips, his pace unrelenting. All too suddenly, she realized that she was shaking, her core tightening, clenching his swollen cock as he continued to rock against her. Her arms tightened around his shoulders, face pressing into his neck as she cried out in pleasure, her core pulsing around him as her body begged his to follow.

With a few more jerky, too rough thrusts, he forced her to look at him. She felt him throbbing as she tightened around him, pulling him closer, licking and kissing at him in the same way he had her as he spilled himself within her.

His body relaxed against hers as he attempted to pull away from her. But, Hermione tightened her hold on him. Tom let out a breathy laugh, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as he pressed his lips against her.

"Don't let go."

He didn't.

 **XXVII.**

Not thinking found them in a small, seaside cottage on the northern coast of Iceland. It didn't change much, though. They still enjoyed a few days a week with their German Vampires, got too drunk with intelligent Wizards and Muggles alike, and when she had questions about Dark magic she was too prideful to ask, Tom would always find wizards so old Hermione wondered if they knew the Hogwarts Founders to answer them for her. She found that it was all very comfortable and practical and she never wanted it to end.

As she sat on the beach just outside of their home, Hermione rolled the sleeve of the shirt over her forearm. Her fingers smoothed over her skin, and she watched as the tattoo came to life, the snake twisting around her arm as though it was stretching after slumber. It'd been months since she'd even thought about it; having started keeping it constantly glamoured. But, as she observed it now, she realized that it was quite intricate. Despite being nothing more than a black outline, it's scales seemed to glow against her skin; and as she touched it, the locket's magic stretched over her in an almost lazy, protective crawl, moving slowly to the tattoo, turning the scales opalescent under the attention.

"Curious," Tom mumbled, sitting down beside her.

She made to pull her sleeve back down, but he stopped her, fingers coiling around her wrist as he brought her arm into his lap. His touch was cold against her skin, and she belated realized that he'd casted a warming charm around them, the frosty spray of the ocean no longer reaching her.

Hermione pulled the locket off and offered it to him, watching as he observed it before taking it from her. Quietly, she asked, "Where have you been?" It'd been three days since she'd last seen him.

Instead of answering the question, he said, "You're really mine," as though he'd forgotten that she'd been marked on the morning after the final battle.

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes falling closed at the feel of him pressing his fingers more firmly against her tattoo. There was an odd feeling that flared within her, a mixture of calm and excitement and endlessness that had begun to pop up more often than not. It was as though she was responding to a claim he'd not made (at least, not in those words) since they'd argued in Morocco.

After a moment, she met his eyes, looking between them for anything that would sway her way from him. When she found nothing, she pulled her arm away from him long enough to hook it under his, laying her head on his shoulder. "I had a dream about you," she told him. "A long time ago, when we were in Morocco. You were…happy."

"With you?"

"Ha," she smiled, "Like you could ever be happy without _me,_ Mr. Riddle."

He hummed in thought. "Quite true." Softly, he added, "I never expected that…this. I never expected this."

She closed her eyes. Over the smell of the ocean, she could smell him, warm and minty and oddly clean. "You're always drunk when you're with me."

"To dull the effects."

"The effects of what?"

He turned to kiss her forehead, his cheek settling against her. "We are two parts of a whole, on one level. The purest level, really. The only one that matters.

"There is darkness and there is light, and we are constantly feeding each other through the bond- not the necklace, Hermione, the bond that formed when I was forced to kill my followers in your place, that was sealed when you chose me over them-"

"It wasn't a choice," she told him. "Not really."

"No," he said softly, "I imagine it wasn't. Because this was always meant to happen."

She smiled, but knew he wasn't kidding. "So, to dull the effects of no longer being independent?"

"Interestingly enough, I wasn't very independent as Voldemort, was I?"

She wasn't sure what to make of his observation, or what other realizations he may have had with it, so she said nothing.

"Were you happy," he asked sincerely, "in your dream?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "I was."

"What we were doing?"

Hermione turned her face into his shoulder, inhaling deeply. Instead of answering his question, she asked, "Were you telling the truth when you told me I felt like home to you?"

"Yes."

"But you…you still want the same things from life. You still want power and control."

Tom thought for a long time, refreshing his warming charm and running his thumb repeatedly along her mark before he finally said, "I do. However, I have come to understand that relationships involve compromise."

"Oh really?" Her tone was teasing, but she turned her head, looking up at him for his reply.

"For example, your beloved Zimmerman really loves to hunt. He loves to toy with his prey and ensure that they understand it's his hands their life rests in.

"Raginmund, on the other hand, hunts only when he is hungry. He is quick and efficient, not affording them the opportunity to really consider their last thoughts, their last moments. He is, however, very enamored with Zimmerman, and despite his disgust over how he chooses to hunt, he indulges him."

"I take it you consider yourself Rag in this."

"I've always been merciful, Hermione."

She winced, turning her eyes away from him as she rested her head on his shoulder again.

"Yes," he told her. "I still want power and control. But I want what you want more."

"I don't know what I want."

He made an appreciative sound in the back of his throat, heavy with satisfaction and indulgence. "How does it feel to admit that?"

 _Horrifying_ , she thought to herself. _Self-depreciating and sacrificing and terribly dependent, but,_ she swallowed. "Free?"

"Because you aren't lying to yourself anymore."

"Is _this_ what we've been working toward for the last 16 months?"

"Has it been that long?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"That's odd," he said thoughtfully. "We are moving too slowly."

"I'm sorry, did you have a deadline to take over the world by?"

"No. I suppose I thought you'd realize that there was nothing wrong with England sooner."

"How would that have happened? We spent very little time in Wizarding communities. I never got to read any new papers or talk to anyone that wasn't on your team. _How_ would I have known you were fucking lying to me?"

He shrugged. "I was never on task."

"I thought that was because you're, you know, predisposed to insanity."

"That's comforting."

"Stop being so…odd."

"It would have mattered because we would have gotten to this sooner. We would have worked through your issues with 'us' differently. Though, I will say that this worked out greatly."

"I want the mean you back. The cold, clinically intelligent pre-Voldemort wizard that felt invincible and never-ending and _angry_ at the world for denying him."

"You want to hate me again."

"I don't want to hate you. I just want to know where I stand. I don't want to feel like you're using me as a Muggleborn prop to help with your agenda."

"It definitely helps that you're Muggleborn," he told her. "People like me more knowing that I can get along with you, and you know a great deal about Muggle culture that I was never privy to.

"But, Hermione, that doesn't mean I don't value you intimately."

"Of course it doesn't. Now you get to fuck me."

Tom groaned tiredly. "If you never want to do that again, I would be okay. I value your mind and company and the unique way you view the world. Anything else between us, I greatly appreciate, but it isn't necessary."

"So, I _could_ leave. Emotionally, at least."

"Hermione," he said seriously.

"Don't worry. You're stuck with me. But, I still want a family. I still want a world I won't ruin away from," for some reason, it became to breathe. She swallowed again.

"Your desires." His voice was so quiet, so soothing.

She wondered how long he'd been waiting to have this conversation with her. How much _sooner_ it would have happened if she'd realized that he'd been lying to her.

"I didn't realize you fell in love with the locket's version of myself."

"In love?" Hermione questioned, but she didn't deny it. "I was enchanted, perhaps."

There was a smile in his voice as he said, "Things just keep getting more romantic with you, my love. My angel."

Hermione wasn't sure if he was joking or not. She pulled away from him, turning to face him as she sat on her knees. "If we get to live forever, I want a family first. I want you home and helping and satisfied with this," again, she gestured between them.

"I can do that," he told her quickly, solemnly, his eyes fastened wholly on hers.

She nodded slowly, tugging her bottom lip between her lips. He looked at her curiously, as though he could sense what she was going to say next. Before she could say anything, though, he touched her face.

"I'm sure I told you before that I could do anything for you."

She smiled softly. "Whenever you touch me, I feel like the sun is never going to set. It's magical and enlightening and it makes me want…" Hermione leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. "It makes me feel like I'm at home."

His brows rose.

"We were here, in my dream. We weren't…we weren't doing anything, really. Just existing. You and I."

Tom reached for her then, pulling her into his chest before laying back in the cold, damp sand. He slipped his hand under her sweater, resting heavily on her hip. "Love," he spoke lowly. "What do you want after your family?"

She looked up, lips brushing against his jaw, causing him to grip her hip more firmly. "What do _you_ want?"

She prayed it wasn't the world, and was grateful when he said, "Hermione," he took her face in his free hand. His kiss was soft and sweet and he was smiling when he quietly asked, "Have you killed before?"

Her eyes lifted slowly to his, a small smile on her lips. She felt what she'd mistaken for fatigue filling her body. It'd been darkness all along, and now- _now._

"I can only find freedom in death," she murmured, remembering saying those words to Draco. She'd never specified that it had to be her own.

Tom kissed her forehead, holding her closer to him as he let go of her face and propped his arm under his head as they both looked to the ocean. "My little fallen angel."

She drew her arm over his stomach.

" _Mine._ "

* * *

 _"All this bad blood here,_

 _Won't you let it dry?"_

-Bastille, Bad Blood

* * *

 _ **The End.**_

* * *

 **A/N -** _Thanks so much for reading and hanging out with me!_

 _To every guest reviewer, thank you so much for taking the time to read and comment! I really love logging on and reading what you all had to say._

 _Special thanks to the Anon on June 29 who also read a few of my other fics, I really appreciate it and wish I could send you a private msg but since I can't, please know that I love and appreciate everything you had to say ! ! !_


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